


A Twist of Fate

by cloud_wolfbane



Series: Twist of Fate [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Drug Use, M/M, Mpreg, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_wolfbane/pseuds/cloud_wolfbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a cocaine bender Sherlock forgets to take his heat suppressants and spends his heat with a soldier readying for deployment. While he remembers the man's kindness he does not remember his name. In a move even Sherlock isn't sure he can deduce, he decides to keep the child. </p><p>What will he do 10 years later when he meets Dr. John Watson at Barts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Warnings for sort of Non-con but not really. I have been playing around with this idea for ages, do you think I should continue? Also, Beta needed.)

Something was wrong.

Sherlock could feel it like an itch in his brain, a horrible sensation, but even worse was the whirring, blurring, tediousness of the world. His mind was growing stagnant and he could feel it trying to tear itself apart. 

It was too easy to tie the tourniquet on his arm, pumping his fist to bring his median cubital vein in stark relief. It was even easier to slip the 21-gauge needle into the vein and insert his 7% solution. 

It was glorious. The burn of the cocaine in his system was bliss, but still something was wrong. 

He could feel the same itch burning its way through his stomach, fierce and demanding. He needed to get out of flat - now!

The trip through the streets was a blur of people covered in the flashing white words of his deductions. 

Sherlock would later find that he had entered a series of pubs, but the only one he would ever recall is The Royal Lion. It was a seedy pub in a poor part of town, mostly filled with soldiers from the nearby base. They came out in droves around payday and wasted their wages on liquor, women, and gambling. 

Why Sherlock spoke to the man leaving the poker tables, he would never know. The man was young and coltish with military cut blonde hair and startling blue eyes. He smelled of tea and gun oil, an intriguing mixture of protection and danger mixed in a tiny innocuous package. 

He found himself leaning closer to the man, drowning in his scent. He couldn’t help the absolute flood of deductions that escaped his mouth. Deducing the man’s troubled home life, his newly acquired doctor’s license, his love of danger, and his soon-to-be deployment. 

When he finally managed to just stop talking, the blonde man went from intriguing to fascinating. He did not scowl or tell him to ‘piss off.’ 

The man grinned, broad and without guile. “That was extraordinary! Truly, amazing!”

What followed was beyond blurry. Sherlock wasn’t sure what they talked about after that, he could only recall the painful burning in his guts. 

The soldier led him upstairs, whispering more words of amazement, and he drowned in the praise. 

Of course the man was an Alpha, and in his foolishness Sherlock had taken so much cocaine the previous week that he had forgotten to take his suppressants. Deep in the throes of his first heat and an epic high, he spent the night with the soldier in a delirious haze of pleasure and confusion. 

He remembered the sharp sting of first being entered, the body-filling pleasure of being knotted, and the welcoming warmth of the Alpha at his back. What he did not remember was the man’s name. 

The next day Sherlock woke with the worst migraine he had ever suffered. 

The soldier, clearly oblivious, kissed his brow. “I know it sounds stupid, but thank you Sherlock, for sharing that with me.”

He sat on the side of the bed, pulling on his boots while he tried to hide his blush. “I didn’t expect, well I never thought I’d actually get to spend a night with an Omega. I hope you find an Alpha as brilliant as you.” 

The soldier stood, fully dressed, and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s brow. “I have to head out or I’ll miss the bus. Wish me luck.” He grinned with the same boyish abandon as before, and then he was gone. 

Sherlock dozed after that, sleeping off the last of an epic bender. When he woke, fully aware of what had transpired, he spent a full ten minutes staring at the wall in shock. 

He had just spent his heat with an Alpha soldier whose name he did not even know and he was most definitely not on birth control.

For a moment he thought of his older brother Mycroft, a man with a ‘minor’ position in the British government who would have once done anything for his ‘little’ brother. That time, however, was long past and Mycroft was currently in New York dealing with the disaster that was the two towers.

Instead he cleaned himself up and returned to his flat. It was a week later that the pregnancy test turned positive. 

In a fit of sentimentality he would later deny, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his stomach. He thought about the soldier’s murmurs of praise, his amazement, and his warmth towards Sherlock. He remembered the scent of tea and gun oil, both comforting and dangerous. 

He decided then, he would keep the child.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a visitor.

Detective Greg Lestrade had not seen Sherlock Holmes in four months. Now, he was more than used to the man disappearing for weeks at a time, but four months was a frighteningly long time for a man with a serious drug addiction. 

Lestrade had little interest in having one of Sherlock’s foul moods turned on him, but he couldn’t leave the young Omega to rot. 

He went first to the flat on Montague Street, where the landlord promptly told him that he had not let Sherlock renew his lease. 

Fortunately, a forwarding address had been left and Lestrade soon found himself at 221 Baker Street. The flat was in a prime spot of London, mere minutes from NSY. Certainly it was a large step up from the drug and prostitution-laden Montague flat. 

Two sharp knocks on the door brought the landlady, Mrs Hudson. She was an older woman with a pleasant smile and demeanour that reminded Greg of his mum. 

“Come in Dear, I imagine you’re one of Sherlock’s clients. I’m afraid he’s been having a rough morning, but he should be right as rain in a bit. Go right up, I’ll fix you a cuppa, but just this once dear.” Mrs Hudson bustled off to 221A, presumably to make tea. 

Unable to get a word in, Lestrade watched her leave while pondering her words. Having a rough morning? What had she meant by that; one of Sherlock’s drug binges perhaps? Though, Mrs Hudson didn’t seem the sort to tolerate that nonsense. 

Knowing he wouldn’t get any answers standing at the base of the stairs, Greg marched up to 221B. The door was wide open, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The flat was a mess of papers and boxes. The famous skull was on the mantel next to a stuffed bat. Stepping in further showed the kitchen to be a riot of chemistry equipment, though none of it seemed to be in use. 

A sound from the back of the flat grabbed his attention. Lestrade followed it into the loo. 

Sherlock was curled around the toilet, though his back and head were pressed against the tub. He looked more pale than usual with dark bags under his eyes. He didn’t look high, he looked sick. 

“Sherlock?” 

The Detective delivered a perfect single eyed glare. “I am not currently taking Yard cases, Lestrade.” He gave a fierce scowl, teeth bared like a rabid dog’s. 

Greg had long ago learned to ignore Sherlock’s anger. “If you’re sick, you need to go to a Hospital, Sherlock. If you won’t let me take you, at least let me call a cab.” 

“I go to the Hospital weekly, Lestrade. It’s morning sickness, use your eyes,” Sherlock grunted as he pulled away from the tub. Sitting up straight, his dressing gown opened up to reveal the obvious bump in his stomach. He was wearing an old t-shirt with a stretched collar; it framed his pale, unmarked neck. 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade paused, gathering his thoughts, “Did someone force you…” 

Sherlock snorted. “Honestly Lestrade, I shared a heat without contraception, it happens.” 

Lestrade wanted to ask a million questions, all the whats and hows and whos, but whatever Sherlock thought, he was not a complete idiot. What he did know was that a child conceived out of a bonded pair did not last. “How far along are you?”

“18 weeks.” He was looking at his stomach now, at the impossible foetus that had made it four and half months without an Alpha presence. 

“Did you,” and it sounded ridiculous, but it was the only explanation, “did you form an emotional bond?” Emotional bonds were rare things, the sort of things used in rom-com dramas. They were said to form when a fated Alpha and Omega shared a heat, but for one reason or another didn’t complete the mating bond. Doctors were not sure how the rare bonds formed without the exchange of bites, but it was the only way an unmated Omega could carry to term. 

Lestrade tried to take a subtle sniff, but subtle was wasted on a Holmes. Still, he could detect another Alpha scent mixed with Sherlock’s, a scent that should not have been there after four months separation. 

“It is currently the only available explanation.” For a moment Sherlock looked both fiercely protective and extremely vulnerable. He ran his hand along the swell of his stomach. “It’s a boy.”

Lestrade was a low-born Alpha and had never expected to be within breeding distance of an omega. In truth, it would be easy to claim Sherlock now, his instincts should be clamouring for him to mark the bare neck and claim the unborn child. Instead he felt a fierce protectiveness course through his veins, the burn of a parent protecting their child. 

He slumped onto the floor beside Sherlock, and his scent must not have been threatening, because the consulting detective didn’t flinch. “Did you quit, then? The drugs, I mean.”

Sherlock pulled up the sleeve of his dressing gown. His arm was dotted with puncture marks, but they were all old scars. “I made a promise, Lestrade.”

Greg looked at the boy who was barely a man, at the small bump on his thin frame, and thought perhaps he would make a promise too. He might never find an omega and he may never have children, but for now, Sherlock needed a bit of a parent and Greg would be there for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Mycroft returns home to a surprise.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes home

Mycroft exited his private jet in Heathrow. London, as per usual, was covered in a dreary mist. He had never missed home more. 

It had been 12 long months since he had stepped foot on London soil. The Americans had been up in arms since the attack on New York, and it had taken quite a bit of manoeuvring to determine exactly how Britain would lend aid. 

A black sedan pulled alongside the jet and his aide was quick to hold open the door. “Home?” 

“Not yet, my dear. It’s best to visit my brother before he is aware of my return.” Mycroft had left his younger brother 12 months ago still struggling with a raging drug addiction and little interest in life. It had been difficult to leave for America. While his strength in the government was growing, he could not afford to expend resources watching over his brother. The only information he had been able to gather was that his brother was still alive and that he had moved to a new flat. 

On the way to Baker Street he reviewed his brother’s finances. Sherlock had started taking more private cases and had become a paid retainer with NSY. Clearly his brother was receiving an influx of funds, but none of it was appearing in his bank accounts. That was … worrying. 

His brother’s new flat was certainly an improvement on his old one, but he was well aware of Sherlock’s connection to Mrs Hudson. Mycroft stepped from the car, just as the landlady made her way back from shopping. 

“Ahh, Mrs Hudson I presume. My brother thinks highly of you,” he greeted. 

“Oh,” Mrs Hudson startled at the well-dressed man at her door. “Your brother, dear?”

“Sherlock.”

“Oh,” she smiled at him, wide and pleased - certainly not the usual response to Sherlock’s name. “He never said he had a brother. Of course that boy is always going off on tangents. Come in, come in. Sherlock should still be upstairs. He’s having a bit of a lie-in today, I think.” 

Mycroft already knew that she was a widow, retired and living off her pension. He also knew she had no children, which begged why she had a bit of baby powder on her dress and milk stain on her sleeve. Those, however, were questions for another day. 

Mycroft followed Mrs Hudson to the door marked 221A. He wasn’t certain he had had ever heard such fondness in regards to his sibling. 

“Would you like a cup of tea, dear? I just got the milk.”

“No, thank you Mrs Hudson. I’ve been away on business, I would most like to see my brother.” He bid her farewell and took the 17 steps to 221B. 

The door was shut, but unlocked; he didn’t bother knocking. The flat was not nearly as messy with papers and science equipment as he had been expecting. Instead the first mess to greet him was on the couch. 

Sherlock lay sprawled across the couch in his blue dressing gown apparently asleep, and resting on his stomach was … a baby. 

Mycroft was stunned. 

The child was small, probably two to three months. His hair was a wild array of curls in such a light blonde they were almost white. Unlike Sherlock, the baby was awake, he looked at Mycroft with a mix of blue, green, grey eyes that he had only seen on one other human. 

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done?”

“I see the Americans finally returned you?” Sherlock greeted, opening his eyes; clearly not sleeping then. He sat up carefully, cradling the baby in his arms. The child gave a happy giggle. 

“Honestly brother I leave you alone for a year, how does this happen? You had always been quite adamant in your disinterest in breeding.” Mycroft could vividly remember the day many years ago when it became apparent his brother was an Omega. Sherlock so bright and curious and alive was suddenly just another brood mare. 

Then suppressants had been released and Sherlock could spend the rest of his life without ever worrying about the problems of his gender. Mycroft worried about his brother, constantly, but pregnancy had never registered. 

“I will tell you this once Mycroft, and only once. I was not forced, keeping him was my own decision, you are not to go searching for the other father, and if you ever threaten to take him away we will disappear and you shall never find us.” Sherlock growled the words, looking as fierce and protective as any true omega protecting their child. It was startling. 

There were many responses to this threat. Mycroft ran through them all in a moment, but only one promised him a chance in his brother’s and his… nephew’s life. It wasn’t really a choice. 

He took a seat at the other end of the couch and held out his hands. “His name?”

Sherlock starred at him for a moment, his eyes roving lightning fast over his person. “Hamish Oliver Holmes,” he offered after the pause, gently handing over the boy. 

Hamish was apparently a happy baby, because his only response to being handed over was another giggle and a sharp grab for Mycroft’s tie. Mycroft looked him over, marking his size and weight, the way his newer hairs were a darker blonde than the rest, and how much he had Sherlock’s eyes. It was obvious the blonde came from the other father, as did the shape of his jaw and his snub nose. Sherlock’s more distinctive features would only become obvious with time. “Why Hamish?” He had to ask; the name certainly wasn’t anything from their family. 

Sherlock gave another long stare. “His father had Scottish ancestry.”

Sherlock clearly knew how much he was giving away with that statement, as he certainly didn’t want to say it. While knowing the other father had Scottish ancestry didn’t make finding him any easier it certainly gave an insight into Sherlock’s opinion of the man. Somehow, whoever it was that had bred his brother, and managed not to mate him, had left Sherlock with a positive opinion, for there could be no other reason for the child’s name than sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Yarders meet Hamish
> 
> (I always thought that Mycroft would be kind of an awesome Uncle once he got over the whole child thing. Also the middle name is a shout out to Nature and Nurture by earlgreytea68. Which is awesome by the way, read it. )


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally is in for a shock.

Detective Sally Donovan stood at the edge of the crime scene, guarding the police tape because she had no interest in being in the same room as the Freak. He had showed up at a crime scene about seven and half years ago high as a kite. When she had tried to kick him off the scene, he had gone off about her alcoholic mother and her runaway dad, saying something about the way she wore her skirt. It had been a hate-filled relationship ever since.  
Of course Sally had not thought she would ever see the madman again, but at the next crime he had done his little trick for Lestrade and it had been downhill from there. He had disappeared for about year to get sober and then he was suddenly on retainer for Scotland Yard. It was a right disgrace, that.

Now they had a double homicide in a locked room and Sherlock was flouncing about like it was Christmas. God, she hated that man.

Lestrade treated him like a wayward son or something. At first she thought the Alpha might have been shagging him, but Sherlock always had the dulled smell of an omega on suppressants.

So here she was, guarding the police tape like some idiot constable. They rarely dealt with anything more than a few lookie-loos and no one seemed to have much interest in looking at the closed-up flat.

As she was debating sending off a rookie for a tea run, an older woman and her grandson walked up.

The woman was dressed in a simple purple dress, carrying a purse in one hand and holding her grandson’s hand with the other. The boy looked to be about five or six with very blonde hair. It was in the loose sort of curls of the very young and circled just under his ears. He grinned up at her, looking like he wanted to wave, but his free hand was clutched around an instrument case.

“Ma’am this is a crime scene, you should go around,” Sally offered, wondering what in the world the woman wanted.

“I know dear, I’m trying to get a hold of Sherlock. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent, and of course that boy won’t answer his phone.”

Sally blinked, stunned. Then she realized that the woman did look a bit familiar, she was the Freak’s landlady. “Of course, I’ll call him up,” she grinned, always happy to interrupt the man in the middle of a crime scene. Served him right; maybe he was getting kicked out.

She pressed the mic at her shoulder, “Lestrade, there’s someone here for the Fr… for Sherlock.” Probably best not to call names in front of the sweet old lady and the kid.

There was a scuffle over the mic, sounding like Sherlock and Lestrade arguing with each other.

A moment later the Freak bounded out of the house, looking furious. “Honestly Sally, must you bother me in the middle of…” He trailed off as he spotted the two at the tape. “Is everything all right?” He looked honestly worried, his eyes flying lightning fast over the duo.

The boy grinned wide. “Daddy!” he called, pulling free of the woman and running to Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock swung the boy up and around, resting him on his hip in the practiced move of an experienced mother. “Hamish, you are not injured.” It wasn’t a question.

The boy, Hamish apparently, shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Though Mrs Hudson has bad news.” His grinned faded.

Mrs Hudson shuffled forward. “I’m sorry to just show up, but you wouldn’t answer your phone. Honestly Sherlock, that is what they are for,” she paused for a moment to offer a proper scolding look. “My sister suffered a heart attack, she’s in hospital in Sussex and I need to leave shortly if I want to make it by tonight. She should be fine, but it is best I go see her.”

“Oh,” Sherlock looked startled. It was a look Sally would treasure.

“Of course, Mrs Hudson I’ll call Mycroft to keep an eye on Hamish.”

“Thank you, dear. Now you be good for your father, Hal,” Mrs Hudson waved to them.

Hamish scrambled down, and back under the tape. “Be safe, Gran. I hope your sister feels better. Tell her to reduce her LDL intake, ‘kay.” Hamish gave her a swift hug and then went back to his father.

Mrs Hudson couldn’t stifle her laugh. “I’ll do that, sweetie.” Then she was off, back the way she came.

Sally could only stare helplessly at the boy. The Freak had a son? When had that happened? It hit her like in a flash similar to Sherlock’s deductions. He hadn’t been in rehab. Sherlock had been gone about 10 months, just under six years ago. Plenty of time to have had a child Hamish’s age, but the Freak was unmated, she knew he was. Even if the man tended to wear high collars and scarves, she had seen his neck enough times to know there was no mark there. So how had he carried a child to term?

Lestrade was coming out of the house now, looking impatient. “Sherlock, what are you doing down here?” He stopped at the sight of the boy. “Hal?”

“Uncle Greg!” Hamish seemed as pleased as he had been to see his father. He flung himself at Lestrade, getting tugged up into another hip hold.  
“I’m getting too old for all that jumping, Hal.”

“Exercise helps prevent the det ... deter … deterioration of muscles over time,” Hamish offered.

Sally was starting to see the relation.

Lestrade burst out laughing. “Well, all right then, guess I’ll just have to never let you down.”

“Nooooo,” Hamish looked affronted, and quickly scrabbled down, like it had been an honest threat.

The boy was a ball of energy. An instant later he was in front of Sally. “My name is Hamish Oliver Holmes, but sometimes people call me Hal, because Hamish is an old man’s name. I like both though, so you can call me either. You’re a detective right? Like Uncle Greg? What’s your name?” Hamish held out his small hand for a shake and smiled like everything was just awesome.

Sally hated to admit it, but she was terribly charmed. “Yes, Detective Sally Donovan, nice to meet you Hal.” She shook his small hand, smiling back. How in the world had this child come out of Sherlock?

“Why weren’t you inside? I thought only constables guarded the line? Oh,” he pulled a face that was horribly familiar. “You don’t like Dad very much, do you? He said something he shouldn’t have and made you mad. He doesn’t mean it, you know. Dad just likes to surprise people. Uncle My says Dad was born without a filter. I don’t think that’s a real thing though, even if Uncle My says I don’t have one either sometimes. “

Well, that was just petrifying.

Sally wasn’t sure how to respond to that at all so she settled for, “Yeah, your dad and I just don’t get on. I’ll keep that in mind, though.”

Hamish nodded like they had just made a solemn vow.

“Do you want to be a detective, too?” It was better to change the subject.

Hamish shook his head. “No; well, sort of. I want to be a diagnostician,” he pronounced the word like it had been repeated many times.

Sally’s brow rose. “A what?”

“A diagnostician, it’s like a detective doctor, or a doctor detective. Other doctors go to them when they aren’t sure what’s wrong with the patient.”

Oh, lord. “So like a consulting doctor then?”

Hamish beamed like Sally was brilliant. “Yes, exactly. ‘Cept I didn’t make it up. I won’t be the only one in the world, but I’ll be the best. Just you wait.” Then Hamish was off to Sherlock, apparently to tell him about Sally’s comparison.

Sally watched the trio talk. Sherlock seemed more relaxed than she had ever seen him. His smile was genuine, instead of the shamming one he normally wore to charm suspects. He had his arm around Hamish’s shoulder like he couldn’t bear to have the child further away.

Lestrade looked equally pleased, his shoulders no longer tense and his face open in a sort of paternal pride. Sally had not seen the detective inspector so happy since before his wife had left him 10 years ago.

It was perhaps five minutes before a black sedan pulled up alongside the scene. The door opened to reveal a beautiful woman in high heels and a shapely black dress. She appeared to have a Blackberry glued to her hands.

Hamish ran over, though he seemed careful not to jostle his instrument case. “Auntie A, Uncle My,” he cheered. Sherlock followed at a more sedate pace.

The woman looked up from her phone long enough to give Hamish an answering beam. He was shuffled into the car while Sherlock exchanged a few words with whoever else was in the vehicle, presumably this Uncle My. Then they were off.

It did not take long for Sherlock and Lestrade to return to crime scene, but the joking and happiness from before were never completely gone.

When Anderson showed up, he looked utterly lost.

“What happened?”

Sally shook her head, “You won’t believe it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was beta'd by the lovely thegingerintheback (CdnGingerGirl), so hopefully some things should read a little smoother now. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Hamish stages a break out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish stages a break out.

Hal let his mind drift as his fingers danced across the strings of his violin. He had no sheet music in front of him, but he could see the notes of Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5 floating beneath his eyes. The music flowed effortlessly from his fingers and bow, a soothing lull of melody.

His fingers shook as he came to the end of the piece. It was brilliant. Too bad his father was off at the morgue, working on a new case.

He placed his instrument and bow carefully back in his case. Surprisingly, Gran had not given one of her cheering claps.

Hal wandered into the living room in search of his Gran/Landlady, but certainly not his housekeeper. She was sitting in her rocking chair asleep. An empty teacup at her side smelled like one of her famous herbal soothers. It had been so cold and rainy for the last couple of days, Hal wasn’t surprised that her hip was acting up, poor Gran. He tucked a knitted blanket around her to keep her warm, and washed the teacup out in the sink.

As he dried out the cup, a thought hit him like one of his father’s rapid-fire deductions. Gran on an herbal soother would be asleep at least three hours, maybe longer depending on the strength of the dose; plenty of time to sneak his way into St. Bart’s.

Plan set, he ran up to his room and grabbed his bag. A whirl around the house and he had grabbed everything he might need, including a snack - just in case.

Getting out of the flat was another matter entirely. He knew his uncle kept the front door watched by CCTV, but there was a back window.

He grabbed a chair from 221A and placed it under the window so he could scramble up to the ledge. It was only a four-foot drop down, but the bins were right under the window, troublesome. He had to squat on the open window to get the right position, before flinging himself out from the force of his legs uncoiling. Hitting the ground involved a tuck and roll his father had showed him after he decided to join the boys’ rugby team.

It worked perfectly. He avoided the bins, and only had few scrapes to show for it. From there he consulted the map of London he had practically burned into his brain. His father had been teaching him the back roads of London since before he could read.

The direct route to Bart’s would only take 10 minutes, but it would also put him in front of at least 20 CCTV cameras. The back roads method would take at least twenty minutes, but attracted much less unwanted attention.

He wandered the zigzag path of Dad’s city and enjoyed the roar of life around him almost as much as the trill of his violin. On a corner street, just behind one of the best Chinese restaurants in town (check the bottom-third of the door handle, his Dad always said) he found Tom.

Tom was one of the main men on his Dad’s homeless network, but it had been awhile since Hal had seen him. “Hey, Tom,” he greeted.

The man sat against the back of the building curled up in an old blanket. “Hiya Hal. Whatcha doin’ out ‘ere without your ol’ man?” He grinned with a few teeth missing and his beard was a tangled mess, but Hal always thought he was a nice enough man.

“I’m on a mission. Don’t tell Dad ‘kay?”

“Well, I know better than ta mess with a ‘olmes on a mission,” he gave a wink.

“Ta,” Hal grinned and was about to head off, but stopped himself. Digging in his pack he grabbed the Granny Smith apple and carrot sticks he had thrown in there earlier. “You should eat more fruits and veggies Tom, you look sorta grey,” Hal offered his snack.

Tom burst out laughing, but took the offering all the same. “I’ll try an’ ‘member, now off you pop.” He shooed Hal away with another cheeky wink.

Hal shouldered his pack and was off. It was not long before Bart’s was in front of him, but then another problem was posed. He could not walk in any of the patient entrances or one of the nurses would stop a seven-year-old boy without a parent, but all of the work entrances were key card access only. Hmm.

He had to wait four whole minutes for a nurse running late for work to fling the door open too wide. He slipped in easily from there, the man in too much of a hurry to look behind him.

He had never spent much time in Bart’s, so it took a bit of wandering and sign reading to find his way to the morgue. From there he got himself into the observation room.

His dad was down below in the morgue. There was an older man on the slab, mid-fifties judging by his hairline. He had been in the morgue long enough for the y-cut of the autopsy to be done, but his skin had either been placed back or his ribs hadn’t been cracked open yet. He had a sheet over his waist, but his feet were uncovered. His dad was down by his feet starring at them intently, probably checking calluses to help determine job. John Doe, then.

There was a noise like someone clearing their throat behind him.

Hal turned slowly, already knowing who was behind him.

Uncle Greg stood with his hands on hips, tapping his foot.

Whoops.

“Hey Uncle,” he greeted. Quick, think of something to say, distract him. What would Dad do? “Fancy seeing you here.” Oh, he was an idiot.

Uncle Greg couldn’t quite hide his smile. “Hal, what in the world are you doing up here?”

“Poison or back wound?” He asked, now he had distraction, a bijillion seconds too late.

Greg blinked at him. “What?”

“There were no wounds on his front and no bruising on the neck to suggest strangulation. So he was either poisoned, so no wounds, or the wound is on the back where I can’t see it. “

The detective ran his hand through his hair, like he wanted to yank the strands out. “Come on Hal, you can explain all this to your dad.”

Uncle Greg took him by his shoulder and led him down to the morgue.

His dad was now starring at the man’s fingertips. He glanced up when they entered the morgue and his entire body bristled, like splashing a cat. “Hamish,” his brow furrowed as he took a quick inventory. “Jumped out the back window, landed well, but had to roll. You gave some food to one of my homeless network, took alleys to avoid the CCTV. How did you, ah, Mrs Hudson took one of her herbal soothers. Of course.”

Hal scuffed his shoe under his Dad’s scrutiny. “You promised I could come to the morgue on a case with you when I was old enough. I’m seven and three-quarters! I got here all by myself. How can I be a good diagnostician if I never get to see anything?” Hal just barely managed to keep the whine out of his tone.

His father pressed his fingers above the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of an impending headache. “Come here then,” he offered the rolling chair next to the table.

Hal looked up so quickly his vision swam. “I can look?”

Sherlock nodded. “But if you feel ill for even a moment, you shall inform me. I will not think less of you for it. Also there will be no Discovery Health for a week.”

Hal was torn between exuberance and horror. “There’s a new episode of Monsters Inside Me tonight! Even you like that show.”

His Dad just narrowed his eyes, and that was the end of that. Hal could count on both hands the times he had been grounded, but his Dad never backed down once he decided on a punishment.

Hal huffed, but gave up his argument. Instead he hurried over to the chair and scrambled on top so he could see the victim. “Was it poison or back related?”

Dad, of course, understood. “Very good, it was a poisoning. If you look close you’ll see why.”

Hal looked at the man’s fingers and lips for the blue tinge of oxygen deprivation, but there didn’t seem to be any. Instead his face and neck seemed really red for a corpse. This close didn’t seem any worse than seeing operations on the telly, but the small made him a little queasy. It wasn’t a dead body smell, but an overwhelming chemical. He shook his head to clear it.

Dad pulled his chair back and turned it towards him. “You’ll get used to the formaldehyde, though the scent is horrible. Can you deduce the poison?”

“Arsenic?” Hal offered, but it was more guess than deduction, he didn’t know his poisons very well.

“I’ll have you read my book on ‘Deadly Poisons and their Symptoms’, I’m afraid I’ve been remiss. It was Cyanide.”

“Wait, like the Landlady?” Cyanide was probably the only poison Hal knew a bit about. 

Dad looked lost. “What?”

Of course Dad wouldn’t know classic literature if it smacked him in the face. He was bit silly like that. “It’s a story about a woman that kills people with cyanide spiked tea and them stuffs them. She hid the cyanide because it tastes like almonds. I read it in school.” He had really liked that story, even if it was all implied.

Dad’s eyes widened and he spun on Uncle Greg as if to attack. “Of course, almonds. It was the maid. This is Sir Gerald Hart; he disappeared two days ago after complaining to his wife of chest pains. She must have been poisoning him in stages in hopes he would die away from home.”

“Right, er, well then, thanks Sherlock, Hal.” Greg waved goodbye as he pulled up his phone, off to collect enough evidence against the maid.

Dad pulled him off the chair in one smooth motion; it was always surprising how strong he was. Hal looked up with a grin, “ Did I help?”

“Of course, perhaps Angelo’s to celebrate?”

Hal narrowed his eyes, “Will you eat? A whole entrée?”

Dad narrowed his eyes right back. He looked much more impressive at six feet with his coat collar popped, but Hal was a professional Dad wrangler. Dad folded like cheap cardboard, “Half an entrée.”

“Deal, and we share a dessert.”

As they left the morgue, Hal completely forgot that he hadn’t seen inside the body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now properly beta'd by thegingerintheback (CdnGingerGirl) (Check out her Domestic Fics, they are kinda adorable)  
> Also if anyone if curious Monsters Inside Me is an American show about parasites, its awesome in a creepy way. I could imagine Sherlock and Hal enjoying it. 
> 
> Next Chapter will be 5 times Hamish asked about his other dad and 1 time he met him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 times Hamish asked about his other dad and 1 time he met him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place over a number of years so the time line of the last chapter doesn't quite line up.

Violet and Siger

Violet loved her sons dearly, but sometimes she wondered how they grew to be the way they were. She and her husband were both betas, dearly blessed with two children.

Mycroft had been planned and brought about with a series of fertility drugs and hope. He grew into a quiet, but extraordinarily intelligent boy and had a habit of collecting friends like some people collected coins.

Sherlock had been a complete and utter surprise. Violet had not been on any fertility drugs and was just making her way into being too old to have child. He had come into the world screaming and not much had changed since. Where Mycroft hid his intelligence in his quiet and unassuming demeanor, Sherlock was the stark opposite. He seemed incapable of stopping the rush of information he discovered on a day-to-day basis.

Psychologists had tried to pin him with a variety of anti-social disorders, but in truth Violet just believed his personality was too strong to be stifled. He faced the world as if going to war, and attacked each person he met as a protection to himself.

Sherlock grew to be cold, bitter, and lonely. Children his own age were cruel in the face of such staggering intellect and that cruelty shaped her son in a way Violet wished everyday she could have prevented.

At 16 he had presented as an Omega, and in some ways that almost made it worse.

Though it had been heart-wrenching to watch, she had not been surprised when he had dropped out of college and disappeared in a cocaine haze.

She had not seen her youngest son in five years and even her eldest had not been home in some time. The dream of grandchildren was a lost one, or so she thought.

It was a regular Tuesday in June when they came to visit. Violet and Siger were enjoying a quiet, afternoon tea when the maid had approached. “Your sons are here to see you, Sir, Madam.”

Siger looked startled. “Sons? Plural?”

The maid stifled a smile, “Yes, Sir, both of them.”

“Show them back, please,” Violet suggested, even as her heart pounded in her chest.  
When the maid left, Siger grasped her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He had seen the fine tremors running down her fingers.

Mycroft entered the patio first. He was as immaculately dressed as ever, but Violet could see the telltale signs of nerves in his brow and posture.

Sherlock was close behind; even in June he still wore that ridiculous Belstaff coat of his. He looked as bored as if he had spent the day watching paint dry, which was a sure sign he was very nervous. “Mummy, Father,” he greeted them both from behind Mycroft.

It had been a long time since Violet had seen her younger son cling to his brother so. “It’s been ages, boys. It’s lovely to see you both here,” she offered. Sometimes it was best to leave questions unasked.

The greeting seemed to help, because the stiffness in Sherlock’s shoulders released a bit and he stepped away from Mycroft. His movements revealed the three-year-old boy holding his hand.

The boy was looking around wide-eyed, trying to soak in all the new sights of the country home. His hair was platinum blonde and curled a little too long around his ears, making him look absolutely precious.

Violet couldn’t help, but gasp when he focused on her. His eyes were an unmistakable blue-green-grey.

“Sherlock?” Siger was standing, looking somewhere between pleased and furious.

“Hello, I’m Hamish,” the little boy greeted, tugging out of Sherlock’s hand and approaching Siger.

Whatever anger had been brewing, stopped cold. Violet watched as her stern husband, sank to his knees in front of the boy. “Hello, Hamish, I’m,” he glanced at Sherlock, “I’m your granddad.”

Violet watched Sherlock nod his agreement. A grandson, she had a grandson. She had to cover her mouth to stop from sobbing.

Hamish offered Siger a hug, before wandering off to her. “Are you my Gran? ‘Course I hav’ ‘nother Gran. Can I have two?”

Violet blinked at him. “Yes I’m your Gran, dear, but you can call me Grandma if you want.” She looked at Sherlock, “You…ah you could have brought his other parent if you wanted.”

“Oh, do you know my other Da?” Hamish grinned, jumping with excitement.

Violet was startled by this, “Oh, no I’ve never met him.”

It was a couple hours later, when Hamish was curled up in a guest bedroom for a nap that she got the story.

Sherlock never quite explained why he waited three years to introduce them, but he did explain that he did not know Hamish’s father and the entire thing had been an accident induced by a very long cocaine binge.

It had been horrible to hear, but Hamish was a beautiful, loving boy and Violet was not blind to the changes he had wrought in her son. Perhaps, she thought, something great could come from this.

 

Mycroft

Five years ago Mycroft had returned home from America expecting his brother to be either dead or suffering from a terrible cocaine addiction. Instead he had returned to a two month old nephew and a sober brother.

It had been a staggering experience.

Now he was an Uncle to a rather precocious five year old. Over the years Sherlock had developed a rather convoluted babysitting ring for his son; cycling from Mrs Hudson, to Greg Lestrade, and himself. However his brother chose, it was currently Mycroft’s turn.

A little after two, between the call from the PM and meeting with Q Branch, Anthea brought in Hamish.

The woman he had hired for her dedication and her iron control over her emotions was smiling and laughing as Hamish regaled her about his day. He was fully animated, his hands waving as he described something, his eyes lit, and a full grin on his lips.

It had been an amazing thing to watch happy baby Hamish become a happy toddler to a happy child. Mycroft had watched Sherlock go from a sullen baby to a curious toddler to a lonely, mean-spirited youth. Watching Hamish was like seeing history rewrite itself. 

Finished with his tale, his nephew turned over his full attention. “Uncle My!” he greeted, like he hadn’t just seen him that weekend.

The grin was infectious. Mycroft pushed away from his desk, “I think it’s time for an afternoon snack, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, will Auntie A join us?” he asked. That was another thing; Hamish adopted other people into his family as easily as breathing. He had been calling her Auntie A since he meet her two years ago and the name Anthea had been permanent ever since.

“I have some work to do, but thank you Hal,” Anthea answered, waving her Blackberry in explanation.

Hamish gave her a quick hug, before following into the parlour.

One of his people had laid out a small tray of cut apples, carrot sticks, broccoli florets, tea, and lemon water. In the last few months Hamish had gotten hold of a nutrition book and had taken it to heart. He stuck to his fruits and vegetables, and always chose water or milk over juice. Mycroft had lost five pounds just out of proximity.

Hoisting himself on one of the plush chairs, Hamish grabbed a carrot stick and started munching happily.

Mycroft watched him, taking the time to deduce his day from the grass stains on his pants to the bit of glue he had somehow managed to get on his shoulder. Halfway through his carrot, Hamish grew pensive, for a startling moment looking the mirror of his father.

“What is it?”

“Did,” his gaze flitted about, “Did my other Dad leave?”

He had been expecting this soon after Hamish started school. Mycroft placed his tea down so he could properly look at him. “Did someone say something?”

Hamish shook his head, then stopped and nodded. “They weren’t trying to be mean or anything, just some of the boys were saying if I didn’t have another Dad, he had either left or… or was dead.”

It was a difficult question to ponder. Mycroft had followed his brother’s decree and had not tried to find the elusive Scotsman. “I’m afraid I have little information, Hamish. Though I do not believe he is dead.” This was true enough, if the Alpha was dead than surely Sherlock’s scent would have lost the tea and gun oil undertones.

Hamish nodded, still looking serious. “That’s good, he can come back if he’s not dead.”

 

Mrs Hudson

Christmas was right around the corner and Sherlock was off across London investigating a serial arsonist. Mrs Hudson had offered to watch Hal, enjoying the boy’s company.

At six years old he had already been playing the violin for some time. It was amazing to sit in her chair and listen to him play Ode to Joy on his child-sized instrument. He missed a beat every once in a while and his little fingers couldn’t always press the strings down all the way, but he was a sight better then listening to Sherlock in a strop.

At the end of his piece, he placed the instrument down and went through the ritual of checking the strings and running rosin over the bow. When he was done he clicked the case shut and tucked it into the corner with his school bag.

“Is something wrong, sweetie?” Hamish sometimes had his father’s habit of jumping between moments of active talking and quiet introspection, but he had seemed quieter than usual all day.

He looked at her, both nervous and determined. Finally, he wandered over to the couch and curled up at her side.

Mrs Hudson ran her fingers through his curls, knowing he would talk when he was ready.

“Gran,” he sighed, “did you know my Dad?”

“I’ve known him for a number of years dear. My husband was not a very nice man and he did me a great service getting him away from me.”

Hamish shook his head against her side. “No, I mean my other Dad.”

Oh. “Ah, no I never met him. Your Dad was already pregnant with you when he took the flat upstairs.” She felt sad for the boy, as far as she knew there was no one to tell him about his father but Sherlock, and considering the state he had been in when he had moved, there might not be much to tell.

“’Kay,” he murmured and buried his face into her dress.

Mrs Hudson continued to run her fingers along his scalp and together they listened to the sounds of London passing them by.

Lestrade

It was New Year’s Day, and in a fit of absolute madness the detective currently had Sherlock and Hamish in his tiny apartment at the same time.

Sherlock was being his usual nosy self and was flipping through the cold case files on Greg’s table. Nothing new there.

Hamish, however, was with him in the kitchen. He was standing on a footstool and being very careful to stir the pot of sausage and lentils on the stove. “Can we add the tomatoes yet?”

As he had many times before, Lestrade found himself wondering about Hal’s other parent. It had certainly not been Sherlock’s gene pool that injected Hal with such a helpful personality. “Sure, kiddo,” he grinned and dumped in the two cans of crushed tomatoes into the pot.

Hal stirred a little more vigorously, but was still careful not to splash the pot.

It was starting to smell delicious, which was a good sign from a random recipe he had pulled from online. “You can stop stirring now, we just need to let it simmer for 30 minutes.”

Hal nodded and placed his spoon on the rest before hopping off his stool and pushing it against the wall.

Greg put the lid on the pot and turned down the heat. When he turned, Hal was right behind him, eyes narrowed like he was about to break into a deduction.

“Did you know my Dad?” he asked, careful to keep his voice low, so Sherlock wouldn’t hear him.

Greg jerked his head to the living room. “You should ask him, you know.” He wished he could tell Hal something, but Sherlock had been halfway through the pregnancy by the time he had caught up with him.

“So you never met him?” If nothing else, Hal had his Dad’s stubborn persistence.

“No, sorry kiddo, no luck.”

Hal hung his head, took a deep breath, and then went into the living room, but he never did ask his Dad that night.

Sherlock

Sherlock was trying to study his new mould cultures under the microscope, but he was distracted.

Hamish was sprawled out in the living room, surrounded by books.

At nine-years-old he had been skipped up three grades before Sherlock had put an end to it. Though he more than believed his son capable of moving up more, he was not blind to his own childhood.

Hamish made friends with an ease that was just startling, but even his boy would have trouble making friends more than three years older than him. Instead, Mycroft had worked out a deal with a local college that offered Hamish independent medical and science studies. By the time he finished high school, Hamish would be near finished with a BA of science.

Today, Hamish had decided to work on a few projects simultaneously, which was why the living room currently looked like a library had taken up residence.

It was almost a novelty to find his son inside. Ever since he had joined the local boys’ rugby team and regularly took Judo classes at the local youth centre, it was rare for him to be home during daylight hours. He also tended to wander over to the park for a game of football or lacrosse.

His father seemed to find this fascination with sports to be a gift from God, and often made the long trip in to watch him play.

It was so strange to watch him grow and develop into his own person. Sherlock often wondered how much of him was Holmes, how much was himself, and how much was the soldier from the bar. He could see it in the blonde hair and he imagined the soldier was probably to blame for the sheer need for team sports. He had been startled years ago when Hamish had promptly claimed he wanted to be a doctor.

The memories of that night were hazy at best, but Sherlock was certain the man had been in the medical field. The same way he had remembered the slight Scottish lint to his voice.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Hamish turned his way. “Hey Dad, how did you have me without a mating mark?” He looked casual as he held up a book about Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics and the effects on society over time. His shoulders, however, were stiff with nerves.

“It was…some…ah,” he had not been this nervous in his life. “It is an ancient, biological imperative that prevents an Omega from carrying to term without a present Alpha. Doctors have been trying to create hormone shots against this for some time, but with little success. However, there are pair bonds with biological traits that match perfectly. These rare pair bonds are capable of carrying a child to term without the mating mark because they develop a bond without it.”

Sherlock had looked up the information himself, once the Doctor had informed him that even as he decided to keep his child that he may not have much choice in the matter. Each month until his birth had been a hope in a very unscientific bond. Sherlock had never felt so powerless.

Hamish stared at him, absorbing and assimilating the new information. “Like soul mates? My other Dad was your perfect match. How could he just leave?”

His son was on the cusp of being furious; Sherlock could see it in the clench of his jaw and the tone of his voice. “He was a good man. I was not in the best state of mind when we… when we were together and he was not aware that I was pregnant. “

“What is his name?” Hamish asked, looking desperate.

Sherlock felt something hard well up in the back of his throat. “I don’t know.”

 

  
Hamish

Hamish stood in line at the coffee shop in St. Bart’s. Mike Stamford and another man were standing in front of him talking about the old times and how much everything had changed.

The other man was interesting to look at. He clearly smelled like an Alpha, but he was small and unassuming in his tan jumper and jeans. He had a cane, but he was barely leaning on it, like he forgot about his limp. His hair and posture said military. Hmm.

Hamish tapped his hand to grab his attention. “Hello, sir.”

The man turned to face him and offered a friendly smile. “Hello.”

“Thank you for serving, was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Enter John


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets an interesting young boy at Bart's.

“John, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.” Ella seemed to be holding back exasperation by sheer force of will.

John just stared at her, watching as she wrote ‘still has trust issues’ on her notepad.

“Perhaps you can think of this as a new chapter in your life. A chance to settle down and start a family,” she suggested.

John scoffed. “I’m an Alpha, exactly how do you expect me to go about doing this?”

She stared back, an answer not forthcoming. Instead she went on to badger him about writing in his blog and how it would help him.

John limped to physical therapy in a simmering rage. Ella, like most of the population, was a beta. She thought the idea of settling down to start a family was an easy one, like there weren’t four Alphas to every one Omega. As if John wasn’t an old wreck with his mental leg and the ugly scar on his shoulder. If there were unbounded Omegas out there his age, John would stop using his cane.

When John made it to physical therapy, his nurse scowled at him for walking the whole way, even though he was there for his shoulder.

His nurse, a very small woman he could lift one-handed, spent the next hour breaking him apart. Like the world’s tiniest drill sergeant, she bullied him through each set of weights and tension lifts until his shoulders were a shaking mess of tightened nerves. Then she proceeded to massage the tension out of his shoulders with fierce fingers and pinpoint accuracy.

John left therapy shaking, but pleased. As much as he hated anything with the dreaded ‘T’ word, he had always enjoyed the exhaustion following a good workout.

As he trudged down the hall, he pondered if he could afford taking a taxi back to his bedsit. Living in London, funds were getting short indeed.

“JOHN! John Watson!”

He spun to find a middle-aged man huffing after him. He was a bit overweight, but looked vaguely familiar.

“It’s me, Mike Stamford. I know, I got fat. It’s the missus, you know,” the man, Mike, grinned.

John shifted his cane and shook the offered hand. “Ahh Mike, it’s been a long time.” It had too, the man hardly resembled the skinny, frazzled youth he had been in med school.

“It’s been too long, mate. I heard you were abroad getting shot at, what happened?”

“I got shot,” John answered, hackles raised. He had no interest in rehashing old Med School tales when he was hardly the same John Watson.

“Hey, John,” Mike looked abashed, realizing his faux pas, “come on, let me buy you a coffee, for old time’s sake.”

John wanted to say no, wanted to limp back to his bedsit and never visit Bart’s again. But he had stared at Ella across her little office and told her ‘nothing ever happened to him’ and he knew nothing ever would if he kept hiding. He gave a half smile. “Make it tea and you have yourself a deal.”

Mike grinned and led him to a new little café off of the emergency room.

It was a bit busy this time of day, but John found himself enjoying trading stories back and forth with Mike. He had forgotten how steady the man was, like a mountain not easily felled.

He was so distracted that it took him a moment to notice the tapping on his arm. He turned to find a young boy staring at him.

“Hello,” the child greeted.

“Hello,” he returned, bemused.

“Thank you for your service, was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John could only stare. “How did you know?”

The boy’s whole face lit up like John had asked him the best question. “You carry yourself like a soldier, your hair is cropped short, and you have tan lines above the wrist and neck; abroad but not sun bathing. You clearly just left physical therapy, but it’s your arm that’s shaking, not your leg, you are barely leaning on your cane, so shoulder wound and traumatic, but not harmful damage to leg. So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” John breathed, “that was amazing!”

“Really?” he grinned. “My name’s Hal; what’s yours?”

“Of course, it was extraordinary, and I’m John.”

“Were you a doctor in the Army, John?” Hal asks, looking like he wanted to ask something else.

“I was, how’d you guess that one?” John grinned, amazed at the young boy.

“I don’t guess,” Hal scowled, but his face quickly shifted back to a smile as if he could not hold the expression. “You were talking to Dr Stamford about how Bart’s has changed, so Doctor.”

John laughed. “Of course, obvious,” he teased.

“’Course. Um, I wanted to ask if you could help me with a project? I need a Doctor, but they are all busy.” Hal shuffled his feet.

“What is your Dad up to, Hal?” Mike interjected. He looked at Hal fondly, so he clearly knew the boy.

“He’s working on a case in the morgue, it’s a long one,” Hal replied.

Mike nodded. “Of course he is, your Dad is a busy one. You shouldn’t ask random strangers for help though,” he said in the universal tone of a scolding father.

Hal looked contrite. “He’s not a random stranger though, he’s an Army Doctor named John and your old friend.”

“He’s got you there,” John chuckled. The kid was something else. “I’m not busy, what do you need help with?” John could not help but want to aid Hal, he was maybe ten with blonde hair and strange blue eyes. John thought that if he had ever had any luck with his biology, perhaps his own child would look something similar.

Hal beamed. “I’m working on my science fair experiment covering diseases in animals that can be transmitted to humans and the difficulties of diagnoses. I need help with my visual aid.”

“Well then…” John couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Mike bought them both tea and Hal bought a coffee, black with two sugars for his Dad. The trio made their way to the empty lab beside the morgue before Mike had to make his way back to his classroom.

Hal delivered his coffee and suddenly John found himself at a table with a ten year old surrounded by bones. “Ah?”

Hal grinned as he picked up a very real cat skull. “My Dad got the body from the vet for me. We boiled the bones and cleaned them together, but now I have to wire them back together. The project is due next week and this is going to take me forever without help.”

John looked at the pile of bones and had to agree, some of them were very tiny. “Wait, your Dad taught you how to clean bones?”

Hal shrugged. “He’s a little weird. Totally awesome though.”

Considering how brilliant the son was, John could only guess at the father. “I can see that. Well, I don’t really know cat anatomy, but I know how to wire bones back together just fine.”

Hal pulled out a life-sized poster of a cat skeleton for reference and they went about putting together the macabre puzzle. Hal explained that the cat had actually been infected with bartonellosis, commonly known as cat-scratch disease.

John teased him about Cat Scratch Fever, but his age was against him, because Hal had clearly never heard the song. Instead he spent the time teaching Hal how to properly pronounce bartonellosis, and the rest of the time listening to Hal list every zoonotic disease he could think off.

Hours passed easily and John was surprised to find himself holding the skull while Hal wired it into place. Hal took a moment to carefully bend the legs and tail so the skeleton looked moments from pouncing.

“It’s brilliant, I bet you take first place,” John grinned at his little partner in crime.

Hal looked pleased at the skeleton, but shook his head. “Probably not.”

“What do you mean, this is amazing, I can only imagine what your poster looks like.”

Hal shrugged. “I didn’t win last year because they didn’t think I had done most of the work myself. It’s fine to get help on stuff like this, but they thought my research was too advanced and gave me an honourable mention.”

“That’s bollocks… Er, I mean crap, that’s crap. You are clearly smart enough to do the work yourself.”

Another shrug was proffered. “It's okay, I just like the project. Anyway, over 50% of the students cheat and have their parents do most of the work. It’s an honest conclusion to come to.”

John scowled, but Hal didn’t really look upset. He was staring at their cat skeleton like it was something precious.

The door slammed open with a resounding crack and in came a man John would recognize anywhere. He was older and not as frighteningly skinny, but John would never forget that dramatic posture, curly black hair, and those multi-coloured eyes.

“Sherlock?” John gasped.

The man turned to him startled like some dramatic black bird. “Ah, hello.” He looked from Hal to John, eyes lingering on the finished project.

Of course he wouldn’t remember him; John wanted to kick himself. “Sorry, I doubt you remember me, it’s been years. Dr John Watson from The Royal Lion about ten years ago.” He held out his hand.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide as he took his hand. “John, of course. How could I forget?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Hamish gets a new tutor and Sherlock takes a case.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal gets a new tutor and Sherlock has a bit of a crisis.

“Sorry, I doubt you remember me, it’s been years. Dr John Watson from The Royal Lion, about ten years ago.”

Sherlock stared at the outstretched hand, astonished. John. JOHN! His name was John Watson. The scent of tea and gun oil was just as strong as ever, now blended with the burning scent of a desert sun and the sharp metallic tang of old blood. The scent of a fighter and protector had become the scent of a seasoned soldier.

Realising he was drifting, Sherlock shook his hand. “John, of course. How could I forget?” How had he forgotten? John, the man had one of the most common names in England and his hard drive couldn’t save it.

“Dad?” Hamish was staring at him. Clearly his son was picking up on the tension.

Sherlock gave himself a mental reboot and offered the man a smile. “You had an accent before.”

John chuckled warm and welcome. “That I did, Christ ten years ago I sounded ridiculous. Enough time of getting laughed at in the Army will go a long ways towards losing an accent. But look at you,” he held out his arms as if to encompass the whole room. “Hal told me you were off solving crimes for the Met, and bonded too? With this brilliant lad as your son. I knew you’d do great things.”

Sherlock felt a hard lump work its way up his throat. He coughed, trying to clear it. “Ahh I’m not actually bonded.” He wasn’t sure why he said that. Did he want John to know? Did he want an Alpha in his life? Did he want Hal’s father in his life?

Of course John, dear simple John, did not respond the way an Alpha usually would to such a statement. He dropped his hands and his smile. He looked sad. “Oh,” he murmured, clearly thinking Sherlock had lost his bonded to death, foolish man.

“Dad,” Hamish interrupted. “John is looking for a job. He’s a doctor, Dad.”

That sort of repetition only meant one thing from his son. Hamish was wheedling for a favour. No surprise there, really. After Hamish had determined that his other father was lost, he had decided his Dad was lonely and needed a proper Bonded. This had resulted in a strange ploy involving Hamish’s need for a medical tutor and his insistence that Hal pick the tutor himself.

Of all the doctors on the planet, Hamish had found John Watson. The chances were astronomical.

John looked a little confused, alternating his gaze from Sherlock to Hamish.

For the second time in his life, Sherlock made a decision that was not based in hard facts and logic. “My son is advanced for his grade and wishes to become a doctor. I have been searching for a proper tutor to assist in his supplemental education. Considering you are recently invalided home and living on a substandard Army Pension it would be an advantageous opportunity.”

Behind John, Hamish smacked his forehead. Ahh, perhaps he should not have been so blunt.

As he had ten years before, John responded like no one else. “Amazing as always. Though you have competition now. Hal here had me stripped to the bone in moments. I should have known he was yours right away. A tutor, though? Er, I’m not sure. I have no experience teaching,” John looked stuck somewhere between excited at the prospect and dejected at his lack of credentials.

Sherlock scoffed. “I have no interest in dealing with some dull retired doctor that hasn’t seen a patient in years. Hamish will learn best from someone not bogged down by standard teaching methods. The job would be Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday from 1600 to 1900. We can discuss pay on Monday.”

The doctor looked at him in shock. “Just like that? You hardly know me.”

Sherlock took Hamish by the hand and started out the door. “I know enough, Dr Watson. The address is 221B Baker Street; we shall see you tomorrow at 1600. Good day.” He offered a wink and led his son out of the room at a quick clip; under no circumstances was he running away.

“Dad, Dad, DAD!” Hamish forced his hand out of his fierce grip and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “What was that?”

Sherlock stopped and stared at his son. What to tell him? The truth? No, not yet. “I am in a hurry, it is essential I get this information to Lestrade.” He held up the file he had been carrying around since the morgue. Of course the information could easily be passed through text, but that was not the point.

Hamish glared at him. “I like him, Dad, he could be a good tutor. He could be… He could be good.” Hal chewed on the bottom of his lip, looking down.

The sigh was automatic. “Hal, we discussed this.”

“No! You talked at me about this. What is so wrong with you finding an Alpha? You could find a good one, someone that will make you happy.” Hamish was snarling, his tiny canines bared.

“Oh, Hamish.” Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of all and sundry and pulled his son into a hug. “I am happy, Hal. I have you, why do you think I’m not happy?” Hal had stopped asking about his other Dad last year, but Sherlock hadn’t realized his Son felt this way. 

Hal sniffed and buried his head in his dad’s ridiculous coat. “It’s different. I just want you to have someone. You shouldn’t just have me.”

Sherlock lifted him into his arms, dismayed to find that Hal would soon be too big for such carrying. “How about we see what happens, eh?”

Hal nodded against his neck. “What if he doesn’t come? You didn’t offer him a job; you ordered him into one.”

“Oh, he’ll come. I have no doubt about that.”

They reached Baker Street without any more trouble. Sherlock carried Hamish up the flight of stairs to his bedroom and laid him down. “I have to go see your Uncle. Promise you’ll stay here?”

Hamish offered a watery smile. “Promise. I think I’ll work on my poster. I… I want John to see it finished.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock sighed as he ruffled his son’s hair.

He ran back down the stairs at full speed, jumping into the first cab to stop. It was only a five-minute ride to Lestrade’s flat, and he soon found himself pounding on the door.

Lestrade opened the door, looking confused. “It’s Sunday, Sherlock. Is Hal okay?”

“Hamish is fine,” Sherlock shoved the file folder into Lestrade’s chest before shouldering his way inside. “If the brother has a green ladder, arrest the brother.”

Lestrade flipped through the cold case file he had just given Sherlock that morning. “You could have just texted me. What is this about?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock flopped onto the couch, hand over his eyes like a fainting maiden.

“Christ, are you pregnant again?” Lestrade ran over to him, looking worried.

“What?” Sherlock scoffed. “Of course not. Use your nose.”

Pushing his feet off the couch, Lestrade situated himself at Sherlock’s side. “Well clearly something is the matter. You haven’t been this ridiculous since I found you in the bathroom puking your guts out.”

Sherlock glanced at the other man’s face; he wasn’t sure why he had run here of all places. As if Lestrade was capable of giving him any sort of advice. “This is useless, never mind.” He rose from the couch, intent on leaving.

“Sherlock Basil Holmes, SIT DOWN!”

Sherlock sat down.

“Now tell me why you are at my house on a Sunday, ruffled as a bloody hen?” Lestrade was scowling at him, in full Alpha mode.

Sherlock fidgeted. “I found him.”

“Who? The brother?”

“The brother? No! I found John.” Sherlock tugged at his hair, working it into a mess.

“John? Who the hell is John?” Lestrade was lost, as usual.

“Hal’s father!”

“Hal’s… Oh, Christ really? I thought you didn’t know his name?”

“I didn’t. He introduced himself today at Bart’s,” Sherlock turned so he could face Lestrade fully, needing to watch his facial reactions.

Lestrade’s face twisted into surprise and confusion. “He knows about Hal? Why would he show up all of a sudden?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “Hamish met John through Mike Stamford and asked for his help with the cat project. He has no idea who Hamish is, but he remembered me.”

“Well, that’s hardly surprising, you’re not an easy man to forget.”

“It’s been ten years, he should be bonded and with a half dozen children by now.” Sherlock knew he was gesturing wildly, but he couldn’t understand it. John had obvious fathering instincts and a kind disposition. How had he not bonded?

Lestrade laughed as if Sherlock was the slow-witted one. “The man is an Alpha, poor enough that he had to join the Army. Of course he isn’t bonded. You are probably the only Omega he has ever been with. I suppose he could find a beta and adopt, but a beta won’t take an Alpha, it would hardly be worth it. “

Sherlock blinked. “Why wouldn’t a beta take him? He’s a good man.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed, “it’s very rare to find a beta that can take an Alpha and it is always physically painful. It’s difficult to build any relationship without physical intimacy. Most betas wouldn’t take the risk. “

When he hit puberty, like every other child, Sherlock had been force to attend a series of sexual education classes, but he had deleted most of the information as irrelevant. “Oh…” was all he could think to say.

“Yeah, oh. Sherlock, I need you to tell me the truth here. Why did you never find him?” Lestrade shifted closer.

“I told you I couldn’t remember his name, I was high.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it. You remembered the name of the pub and you knew he was an Army man getting ready to deploy with a Scottish accent. I could have found him with that much information. All you needed to do was ask the bartender if he remembered the man. Or find his unit. You could have found him easily. So answer me, Sherlock Holmes, why didn’t you?” Lestrade’s voice was raised, face turning red.

“I didn’t want him to change!” Now Sherlock was shouting.

“What?” Lestrade’s confusion was evident.

“I didn’t want him to change.” It was barely a whisper. “He called me amazing…said my deductions were extraordinary, but I’m no idiot. My personality was tempered by cocaine,” Sherlock grit his teeth and looked away. “Without the drug and the heavy scent of an Omega in heat why would he possibly want to bond?”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade softened, pulling his wayward, adopted son into a hug.

Sherlock pushed him away, standing up in the same motion. “I don’t need your pity…Greg.” He headed for the door, coat swirling about his ankles.

“You have to tell him, Sherlock. He deserves to know. “

Sherlock paused, looking him over with a long stare, but he said nothing as he slammed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if anyone is a bit OOC I tried to keep them as in character as I could in the context of the story. 
> 
> Next Chapter: John does a bit of tutoring and then finds himself in the middle of a murder investigation.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John on a case

John stared at the door to 221 Baker Street. It was 1540 hours and he had no idea what he was doing here. Well, that was a lie; he knew exactly why he was here. His inner Alpha was absolutely purring at the idea of even a chance with an Omega. Which was just ridiculous, Sherlock was a widower with a young son. If he had any interest in bonding again it wouldn’t be with a poor soldier, it would be with another rich Alpha. There was no telling his instincts that, though.

Pulling himself together, John knocked on the door.

There was a yell from inside and the pounding of feet like a herd of rampaging elephants. Hamish threw open the door. “Hey, Dr John!”

“Just John is fine Hal. How was school?”

“Booooring,” he drawled, but didn’t look that upset about it.

“Hmm, well I hope I can make things a little more interesting.” John held up his old rucksack, heavy with books.

“Come on up, Dad is mid-experiment, but I commandeered the living room.” Hal turned and stomped back up the stairs.

John followed at a more sedate pace. He hated managing stairs with his cane. The flat was very nice and in a great location. It was certainly strangely decorated, however. There was a real human skull on the mantel piece, a skeleton of a cow’s head with headphones on the wall, and a Cluedo board held up with a knife.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, surrounded by an advanced chemistry set and peering into one very expensive microscope. He glanced up at their entrance, but didn’t say anything.

John took that for the dismissal it was and went into the other room with Hal. They sat on the floor together and John pulled out two books from his pack. “This is vital for every Doctor,” he said, handing over his Grey’s Anatomy.

Hal held it carefully, running his hand over the battered text like it was something precious.

“This is something equally important.” John handed over another, smaller book.

Hal looked it over closely. It was old and torn, but the cover was hard cardboard held with metal loops, a very sturdy sketchbook. The first page was a rough drawing of a skeletal hand with all the bones labelled. The next was a skull, then ribs, then foot, then organ systems. Each was carefully identified in tiny doctor’s script. “It’s only half full?” He muttered, reaching the last page with drawings.

John nodded. “I finished school, I didn’t have time to sketch anymore, but this helped me to learn. I had the top grades in my class, you know. Your dad said you would do better with nonstandard teaching. I thought you might enjoy something like this.”

Hal looked stunned. “Thank you, I’ll get a sketchbook tomorrow.”

“Nah, keep that one, it was just collecting dust.”

“Really?” Hamish held the book close to his chest, wide eyed and pleased.

“Yeah, it’s all yours.”

They spent the three hours flipping through the Grey’s and studying anatomy. John walked Hal through all the little anagrams and songs he knew to memorise the different bones. He had Hal rolling on the floor when he taught him the song to remember the parts and functions of the brain.

“Thalamus-Switchboard!” Hal would cheer.

“Except for smell,” John would respond back.

Sherlock watched them in silence, but John would occasionally catch him smiling at their antics.

Three hours passed in a flash, and John soon found himself pulling on his jacket, the black one with the silly shoulder patch. “I’ll see you Wednesday, shall I?” John directed his question at Sherlock, wondering if he had gotten fired before even getting started. The lesson had gotten a little out of hand.

“Of course, John,” Sherlock responded, handing over an envelope.

John peered at it curiously, astonished to find a check for 1500 quid. “This is too much, Sherlock.”

“It’s for the whole month.” The man shrugged like it was nothing.

“I only work nine hours a week, I can’t… Sherlock, I can’t take this.”

The conversation might have turned into an argument if the door downstairs hadn’t slammed open. Moments later a man ran up the stairs. He was in a suit and a grey trench coat. The man was older than Sherlock, but certainly handsome with his silver and black hair. He also smelled distinctly like an Alpha. John could scent the slight musk mixed with coffee and London rain.

“Sherlock, there’s been another one, will you come?” The man was clearly a detective.

“Lestrade, I told you I wouldn’t take that case, you know why,” Sherlock seemed upset about something, glancing between John and Hal.

“She left a note, Sherlock please, it’s a serial killer.” The man, Lestrade, was practically begging, clearly upset.

“Fine, I’ll come. Who is on forensics?”

Lestrade winced. “Anderson.”

“Anderson won’t work with me.”

“He won’t be your assistant, it’s different.”

“I need an assistant!”

“I could … I could help,” John offered and instantly felt the idiot. This was a police investigation.

Sherlock turned to him; eyes wide and a mad smile broke across his face. “You were an Army Doctor.” He breathed it like a revelation.

“Er, yes, and quite good, very good,” John stammered.

“Well then,” Sherlock turned to Lestrade, clapping his hands. “I have an assistant.”

Lestrade sputtered. “You can’t just…Sherlock! It’s bad enough letting you on scene, I can’t just…” He looked at John in exasperation. Then, gathering himself, he straightened and held out his hand. “Greg Lestrade, Hal’s godfather.”

John stared at the hand for a moment, wondered about the non sequitur. “Dr John Watson.” He shook the hand firmly, but was careful to not let his Alpha instincts force him into posturing.

“All right then, I’ll see you in Brixton.” With that, Lestrade was off, running back down the stairs at full clip.

“Come along then, Doctor,” Sherlock grinned, throwing on his coat and fastening his scarf around his neck. “Hal, keep Mrs Hudson company for a bit, will you?”

“Sure, Dad,” Hal scrabbled over and grabbed Sherlock in a hug before stepping back. He was grinning ear-to-ear, smug.

“Stay out of trouble,” Sherlock grumbled, ruffling his hair.

Hal only smiled wider, like butter wouldn’t melt.

Sherlock scoffed and led them out of the flat.

“I bet he’s a little a charmer,” John teased as they hoped into a cab.

“He was born charming his way into people’s hearts; he has half the Met wrapped around his fingers. The other half just hasn’t met him yet.” Sherlock looked over, smirking.

“’Course he does, he’s just like his dad,” John praised.

Sherlock sniffed and looked away. “Yes, something like that.” They spent the rest of the cab ride in silence.

When they arrived at the crime scene, John was surprised to find it looked just like something out of the telly. It was drizzling out and two police cars were stationed around an abandoned building, their lights flashing across the wet pavement.

“Who’s this, then?” A female officer behind the tape scoffed, as they approached.

“This is my colleague. John, this is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan; Sally, John. Now let us through.” Sherlock stood poised in front of Sally like a great heron fit to strike.

“Colleague? How did you get a colleague? Hal bring him home for you?” she scoffed.

Sherlock slipped under the tape, holding it up so John could easily limp under. “Something like that. Tell Lestrade we’re coming up, and honestly Sally, that’s a terrible deodorant for you. “

Sally sniffed, indignant, but announced them on the radio all the same.

“Deodorant?” John asked as they entered the building.

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s an old argument.”

Lestrade led them up to the top floor of the derelict building, which seemed to have been abandoned for a long time.

At the top, John, who had once held a man’s intestines inside his body until help could arrive, felt his stomach recoil. “God.”

“No deities here, John,” Sherlock muttered as he leaned down beside the body.

It was just a little girl, probably six, in a pretty, pink party dress. Her little hands were bloody and broken, spread out in front of her. She had carved a single word into the wood in her dying moments, spelling out the word ‘Rachel.’

Sherlock moved around her quickly, checking her hands and face, leaning down to peer at her dress and hair.

Lestrade kept up a dialogue from the corner of the room. “She was from Cardiff, her family were here visiting for her birthday. Name’s Jennifer Wilson. She was discovered a few hours ago by a bunch of teens horsing around, she hasn’t been here long. “

“Rachel, who was Rachel?” Sherlock muttered, more to himself. “John, take a look.”

John bent down, checking rigor and searching for cause of death. “She’s been dead maybe five to eight hours, best guess is poison for cause of death, but she has bruising on her arms and legs, maybe impact injury.”

“No, it was poison, the last one was poison too. I need to see the parents.” Sherlock straightened and headed back down the stairs. “He made a mistake, they always do, serial killers.”

“What do you mean mistake, what mistake?” Lestrade yelled after him.

Sherlock stopped midway, yelling up at them. “Look at her, really look at her. She was a clever girl, cleverer than him and she was six. He talked to her, he made a mistake.”

“What?” Lestrade was exasperated.

Sherlock gestured wildly, “RACHEL!” Then he was off, down the stairs in a mad dash.

John followed after him, pins and needles burning up his leg as he tromped down the stairs. There had been no need to rush, however. Sherlock was standing at the edge of the tape with an older couple, maybe in their forties. A bit old to be Jennifer’s parents, but John couldn’t guess who else they could be.

He approached the couple slowly, trying to control his breathing while looking as harmless as possible; it was a trick he had well perfected over time.

Sherlock was looking the couple over like he was performing an x-ray, a disgusted sneer on his lips. “Rachel was your daughter wasn’t she, Mrs Wilson?”

Mrs Wilson looked startled, blinking large tears from her eyes. John was surprised to find the well-dressed woman and her husband was an Alpha and Omega pair bond. “Rachel was Jenny’s younger sister, she died last year, it…it was SIDS.”

“I imagine these things happen.” Sherlock did not seem overly sympathetic to what must have been a terrible loss. “Rachel was your, what, 16th child.”

“I…yes she was. How did you know that?” Mrs Wilson’s brow was scrunched in confusion. Her Alpha had his hands around her shoulders and looked ready to attack Sherlock at any moment.

John positioned himself behind the detective and straightened to his rather unimpressive height. He cleared his throat softly and glared.

The Alpha promptly folded, ducking around his wife like a child.

John’s inner Alpha roared in triumph. He still had it.

Sherlock seemed oblivious to the dominance posturing happening around him. Instead he was watching Mrs Wilson. “Do you know what I found on Jennifer? She had bruises on her upper arms and legs. Judging by the colour and pattern, they were made some days ago by someone with small hands. A woman’s hands.”

“The killer was a woman?” Mr Wilson asked, looking lost.

“No, statistically the killer was a man, but Jennifer’s abuser, that was a woman. It was you, Mrs. Wilson. Forty-four with a six year old and a new baby must have been stressful. Must have been terrible to wake up every morning to a baby crying. Sixteen times you had to deal with crying, squalling babies. You must have been so tired. It must have been a relief when Rachel was suddenly gone.”

“NO! No, she was my baby. It was horrible. It is horrible. Why are you saying this?” Mrs Wilson was backing up to her husband, clinging to his arms.

“She was the last straw. You smothered her in her crib and when Jennifer, smart, clever Jennifer started to come into her own, started to develop a character, you started hitting her, hoping to make your life easier with a less wilful child. But the killer talked to her. He told her about Rachel and how you killed her, and in her last moments Jennifer told us. She carved the name of her murdered baby sister into the wood until her fingers bled. She left us a clue.” Sherlock didn’t scream or yell; instead his voice grew quieter and steadier, but he was breathing hard as if on the edge of murder.

Mrs Wilson screamed, shrill and wordless.

Mr Wilson shook his head. “No, no, she wouldn’t. We have fift…fourteen grown children. My mate would never lay a hand on a child.”

“Oh I imagine she never touched any of the fourteen elders. She must have loved being a mother, but as she grew older and it was too much, she asked for suppressants, contraceptives, anything. You, however, Mr Wilson are a highborn Alpha; you couldn’t let your mate be on pills. How bad that would have reflected on you to all your rich friends. “

Mr Wilson snarled and rushed forward.

Sherlock appeared to brace himself for the attack, but John was there first. He threw the larger man to the ground, pressing his knee to his back. “Try me, I dare you,” John growled in his ear and the man froze.

Lestrade was at their side in moments, locking cuffs on Mr Wilson while Sally took care of Mrs Wilson.

Mrs Wilson had large tear tracks running down her cheeks and she was shaking her head rapidly. “I didn’t mean too. I didn’t! She wouldn’t stop crying and I just wanted her to stop. I needed her to stop!”

After the Wilsons were bundled into a car and sent off to NSY, Lestrade returned to their side. “Christ, she killed her own children, because she had too many.” He clenched his fist, furious.

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “She killed Rachel, someone else took Jennifer and gave her poison. Someone that knew the baby had died of more than just SIDS. I need the report on the last child killed. I need to know about the family.”

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, I’ll get that to you in the morning. Thanks for…for helping, I know you hate cases like this.”

Sherlock popped his collar and went off to find a cab, not offering a comment.

John went to follow, but Lestrade grabbed his arm. “Hey, good tackle mate, you dropped him like a stone.”

John shrugged. “He was going to attack Sherlock.” He wanted to say more. He wanted to posture and snarl and demand who Lestrade was to Sherlock, but he didn’t.

Lestrade looked at him with narrow eyes, looking for something. Whatever it was he must have seen it, because he released his hold. “Keep an eye on them for me, will you? Sherlock and Hal attract trouble like flies to a body, they could use a bit of a soldier around.”

“Yeah, I’ll protect them.” John gave an incline of his head and then he was off, chasing after Sherlock. He never noticed the fallen cane left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably one of my favorite chapters so far, I hope you enjoyed it. I apparently lost my mind though, because thegingerintheback (CdnGingerGirl) had to adjust like every other comma for me. 
> 
> Next Chapter: The hunt for the child poisoner continues.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the case.

Hamish woke to the wondrous smell of frying eggs. This was a sure sign that Gran had finally got tired of Hal eating toast for breakfast. “Hmm bless you, Gran,” he said, hopping out of bed.

 

It was the work of a moment to brush his teeth and pull on some school clothes. It took a bit more time to shove all his books into his backpack and hunt down his calculator.

 

“Gran, that smells fantastic,” Hal cheered as he tromped down the stairs.

 

Gran was not cooking breakfast.

 

John Watson stood in the kitchen, dressed in a striped jumper and jeans and looking right at home. The kettle was just starting to whistle as he poured a pan of scrambled eggs into one of their biohazard-free plates.

 

Dad was sitting at the table, surrounded by case files. He also appeared to have a saucer of scrambled eggs sitting beside him, and judging by the fork, he had actually eaten some of them.

 

“Er…Morning,” Hal greeted, stepping into the kitchen as a soldier walks a minefield.

 

“Sorry, I’ve invaded a bit. I thought I’d make eggs in offering,” John looked a little sheepish as he handed over the plate.

 

Hal took the plate with a quick ‘thanks’ and took the time to observe. John had not stayed the night. His clothes were different and not rumpled. He looked tired, but not the exhaustion of staying up all night. His cane was nowhere in sight.

 

“So Dad roped you into the case?”

 

John offered a bright smile and the faintest of blushes. “Yeah, I sort of hired myself as assistant and tutor.”

 

“You should be pleased, it appears John rivals you in his attempts to force food down my throat,” Dad griped. He actually looked at Hamish from his pile of papers, taking the time to show how pleased he was.

 

Hamish couldn’t believe it. A year ago when it became obvious that finding his other father just wasn’t going to happen, Hamish had decided to find his Dad the perfect Alpha. It wasn’t that he wanted a sibling and he didn’t care if he ever had another parent, but his father was the best man in the world and Hal thought he should never look as lonely as he did when he thought Hamish wasn’t watching.

 

John had been a shot in the dark. A military doctor was certainly interesting, but Hal never would have expected this. The first stage of courting was for the Alpha to provide food for the Omega. Interest was shown when the Omega accepted the meal, and here was his dad in the middle of a case, taking a few bites of eggs. They were courting!

 

“Well, someone has to keep your transport running,” Hal was just short of preening. He finished off his eggs quickly and ran over to give his dad a one-armed hug. “I’m taking the bus to school, but I have rugby at the youth centre, so I’ll take a cab home. I should be back by 6 or 7 o’clock.”

 

“Yes, yes. I remember.” Sherlock was scowling, but he hugged back all the same.

 

“See you later, John,” he waved at the doctor as he hurried out of the flat.

 

****

 

John watched Hal bolt out of the flat as he took a seat at the table with his own plate. “Busy kid.” He was a little distracted from the case; his Alpha instincts were purring. He was being ridiculous of course because Sherlock had only had a nibble of his breakfast, but he had still eaten some, enough not to be considered rejection, anyhow.

 

“Hmm,” was Sherlock’s noncommittal response as he handed over a sheet of paper. “Meet James Phillimore, age seven, he was the youngest of six brothers and sisters. “

 

John flipped through the file, looking at the picture of the young victim, noting the same toxins found in his blood stream as in Jennifer’s. “I’m guessing his parents were Alpha and Omega.”

 

“Of course, and after review James showed bruising on his torso and upper arms consistent with abuse. It appears that Mr Phillimore has a serious drinking problem. “

 

“This doesn’t make any sense. Why kill these children, why not just call social services? Does he think he’s saving them?” John picked up another file of a little girl that had been found a week ago.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Children are very rare outside of Alpha and Omega breedings. Only 25% of Betas can produce children and only after hormone therapy. Considering most Omegas are married into well-off families, a Beta accusing a family of child abuse would not be taken seriously.”

 

“Beta?” John couldn’t help but ask.

 

“Of course it’s a Beta, someone who could get close to the children without the parents realizing it. Couldn’t be another Omega and an Alpha would never be allowed so close to the household. But how, it’s not a servant.”

 

“That’s brilliant,” John exclaimed, probably looking silly.

 

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock looked at him.

 

John flushed. “Right, sorry, I’ll stop.”

 

“No…No, it’s fine,” Sherlock had the lightest flush of colour across his cheeks, and John was pleased to have put it there.

 

They left the flat after that. John spent most of it chasing after Sherlock. They went to each of the children’s houses. The houses were ridiculous, large and opulent.

 

The Alphas were rude and looked at Sherlock like a prized horse. John spent most of the day standing at his side and projecting as much dominance as he could manage.

 

The best part of the day was calling in Lestrade after each interview. In the case of Mr Phillimore, he was led away for child and Omega abuse, a sentence that would keep him in jail for a very long time.

 

All of the legwork, however, did not show any Beta in common with all of the households. John could see Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated.

 

It was around seven when Sherlock got a text that stopped him cold.

 

“Sherlock, what is it?” He asked, watching as the already pale man turned white with dread.

 

“Hamish has gone missing.”

 

***

 

Hal loved rugby; it was a chance to combine physical exertion with mental strategy. It also helped that he was awesome at it. He ran circles around the other children, watching the slightest twitch of their muscles to deduce where and how they would move.

 

When practice was over, he was covered in a light sheen of sweet and buzzing with endorphins.

 

Couch complimented him on another good practice and wished him a safe trip home.

 

It was easy to hail a cab, and he quickly slipped into one of the nicer Beta cabs. “221 Baker street, please.”

 

“Right away,” the driver agreed. “Bit young to be traveling by yourself, eh?”

 

“I think I can handle a cab ride,” Hamish resisted scoffing. He would later blame his distraction on how tired he was, but it did not take long to realize they were not heading towards Baker Street.

 

“You’re going the wrong way, sir. It’s Baker Street off of King’s Drive,” Hamish leaned forward in his chair to try and get a look at the man.

 

He had a torn picture of a woman on the dash, looking heavily pregnant.

 

“Oh, I’m well aware young, master Holmes.”

 

Hamish had his phone out in a heartbeat, pulling up a text in rapid-fire clicks of his fingers.

 

The cab pulled to a curb and the cabbie was suddenly just there. Hamish pulled back, kicking out with feet and hands, but there was a pinch at his arm and then darkness.

 

***

 

Sherlock stared at the text from his brother. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest; feel the pain of it attempting to force blood into a body that no longer wished to work.

 

Hamish was gone. Kidnapped right outside of practice. A cab. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should have seen it. Should have realized that all of the children had a driver to and from school. A Beta-only cab company that offered a driving service on the side for richer clients.

 

His phone binged again with another text from Mycroft. “Facial recognition lists cabbie as Jefferson Hope.”

 

“Sherlock, can we track him?” John was standing at his side, looking flustered and angry, but with nothing to do with the excess adrenaline.

 

When his phone beeped again, it was from Lestrade. “CCTV shows Jefferson Hope and child outside of RFE College. On way.”

 

“We don’t need to, come on John,” Sherlock yelled and they are off.

 

Sherlock didn’t bother with a cab. Instead he consulted the map of London in his mind and took every back alley and short cut he knew to get to the college in ten minutes.

 

John was panting at his side, but he didn’t slow. His left hand was clenched at his side and Sherlock knew he was itching to hold the Browning he had tucked into his back.

 

When they reached the college, the police were just arriving.

 

Jefferson Hope had his back against the College walls. He had Hamish pressed against his side, a syringe at his neck.

 

Hamish looked a little dazed, as if drugged, but otherwise he showed no injuries.

 

Sherlock and John came stumbling to a halt some thirty feet away.

 

“Hello, Mr Holmes,” Jefferson smiled, not looking a bit worried at being surrounded.

 

****

 

Hamish didn’t really come aware of his surroundings until he felt the sharp bite of a needle against his neck and heard the shrill call of sirens.

 

His vision was blurry at first, but with enough blinking he noticed his dad and John some distance in front of him. Uncle Greg and Sally were off to one side as well as a small army of police on the other.

 

“What do you want?” His Dad yelled at the cabbie. He looked fierce, his face twisted in a snarl.

 

“Oh Mr Holmes, I lost what I wanted a long time ago, I thought it time I returned the favour. You got too close, Mr Holmes. Steps had to be taken.”

 

Hal moved his head just enough to get a better look at the cab driver. He was an older man, a bit of shaving cream at his neck, older clothes, badly fitting.

 

“I’ve never hurt my son, in any way. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Target abused children and take them away, save them. Why take Hamish?” His dad looked wide-eyed, frantic.

 

“I had no interest in him at first, but let’s just say I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.” If Dad looked frantic, Hope looked manic. Just shy of insane.

 

“That woman, in the cab. You love her,” Hamish couldn’t stop the words; he needed to distract the man, get the poisoned needle away from his neck.

 

“Oh, clever as your father you are,” Jefferson turned to face him, and the movement let the needle drop just a bit. “Lucy, we grew up together, we were to be married after school.” He turned to Dad and snarled, “But she presented as an Omega and some Alpha swept her away, brought her here.”

 

“You’re American,” Dad looked surprised.

 

Hamish was equally so, the man had a perfect accent.

 

“It took a long time to follow my Lucy, time to blend in with the locals. When I found her, it was in a grave. She had died giving birth to her second child to that bastard. He had already remarried, had a new Omega and new children. Lucy deserved better, she deserved to be loved, not treated like cattle and put down when she was no longer useful. These rich Alphas think they can just take what they want. I had to show them, show them how very easy it was to lose everything. You helped nicely Mr Holmes, getting all those terrible parents arrested.”

 

“Why kill the children, why not the Alphas, that doesn’t make any sense,” Hamish strained against Jefferson, but the man had a strong grip and there was still the needle.

 

“I told you I got an offer. A fan of your good old dad offered to get Lucy’s children away from that man and into a good home in exchange for a few dead little ones. There was a list you see, and you, Hamish Oliver Holmes, were the last one.”

 

Dad looked at John and they seemed to be having a silent conversation. “Hamish, I need you to listen very closely,” his dad was shaking, worried. Something was about to happen. He took a deep breath and yelled, “Vatican Cameos!”

 

Hamish dropped all of his weight, forcing himself loose from the cabbie’s hold. The needle scratched along his jaw, but nothing was injected.

 

Jefferson Hope screamed, he reached out with bruising fingers, but there was a sound like a cannon blast and the man was forced back, slamming into the college wall.

 

Hamish looked up to see a perfect hole in the man’s forehead. At his dad’s side, John stood with a still smoking gun in his hands, his face pulled into a fierce, Alpha snarl.

 

Dad raced forward, pulling Hamish into his arms and whispering nonsense. Hal could feel his dad’s heart, his pulse just shy of shock.

 

The police rushed forward, some checking Hope while the others surrounded John. They were yelling at him, telling him to put his gun down and attempting to cuff him at the same time. 

 

“Stop, he saved me!” Hal tried to yell, but his voice was hoarse.

 

“STOP!” Dad was yelling. He stood up with Hal still in his arms and forced his way through the police. “By the Alpha Defence act, an Alpha is excused from legal action in defence of his mate and pup. Hamish is John’s son. It was his right!”

 

Hal felt his vision swim; maybe he was going into shock too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of POV jumping for you, I apologize if its a bit confusing, but guess what; John knows!
> 
> Next Chapter: Mycroft meets his Nephew's father and makes a decision.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft meets John and talks are had by all.

Chapter Eleven

 

Mycroft had been very busy the last week, even for him. So it was Monday by the time he learned about Dr John Hamish Watson.

 

Anthea handed him the profile just as he was leaving the office. It was in a red folder, which meant Sherlock related.

 

He flipped through it slowly, looking over the specifics. Army doctor; discharged for shoulder wound, psychosomatic limp, and PTSD. Therapist notes talked about trust issues.

 

“Sherlock hired this man as Hamish’s tutor, he’s a walking time bomb,” Mycroft could not understand his brother, sometimes.

 

Anthea cleared her throat. “Look at the back, sir.”

 

The back offered a military picture of the man; blonde and grey hair cropped short, blue eyes, snub nose. He was listed as a class A Alpha, birthplace Scotland. “No,” Mycroft whispered, looking at the information again. “A blonde Army Doctor, Alpha from Scotland.”

 

“It hasn’t been confirmed, but Sherlock did hire him. He showed up at 221B for his first tutoring session. He left three hours later with your brother to a case in Brixton. The poisonings,” Anthea reported.

 

Mycroft pressed his hands against his chin, mirroring one of Sherlock’s favourite thinking poses. “Where are they now?”

 

“CCTV shows that they left the crime scene. Reports suggest that Sherlock invited Dr Watson to dinner at Angelo’s. They separated after that, though script of the night suggests Dr Watson has been additionally hired as Sherlock’s assistant.”

 

“It’s been 24 hours, how did this just come to my attention?” Mycroft did not yell, but his tone suggested it.

 

“It was the elections, sir; there just wasn’t time to review the files until now.”

 

Mycroft forced his anger from showing on his face. Anthea was not one for incompetence or excuses. He knew she spoke the truth.

 

“I will deal with this tomorrow, then. I will not have someone this dangerous so close to my nephew.”

 

“And if he is the father?” Anthea had to ask.

 

Mycroft pursed his lips. “We shall have to see.”

 

As Tuesday rolled around, Mycroft dealt with the running of the government while equally trying to kidnap John Watson.

 

Unfortunately the man arrived at 221B at an ungodly hour and proceeded to never leave Sherlock’s side. Video and pictures of the day showed an Alpha becoming more and more protective of an Omega in Court. It was a disaster. It didn’t help that Dr Watson was a class A Alpha, easily dominating anyone that came around. Mycroft had never seen so many Omega displays from his brother. They were miniscule actions, but Mycroft could see them in the videos from the slightest turning of his neck to the complete disregard for the Doctor’s personal space.

 

Then all hell broke loose.

 

Anthea ran into the room, heels clicking loudly on the floor. “Sir, Hamish entered a cab at 1655 and it did not go to Baker Street.”

 

“Get me facial recognition of the driver, now! Do not rely on vehicle registration.” Mycroft was out of his chair in moments, hurrying to the CCTV monitor room. In route he shot a text to his brother, knowing the man never responded to calls during a case.

 

“Sir, we have confirmed sighting at Rushford Further Education College, your brother is on his way,” Anthea interrupted after a moment.

 

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “Already? Why would he… Ah, it’s a showdown.”

 

Anthea gave a curt nod. “The car is ready, sir.”

 

Mycroft entered the black sedan and ordered the man to ignore all speed limits. Anthea’s fingers flew over her Blackberry as she controlled the traffic lights, making sure every light was green. Even so, it was twenty minutes before they pulled into the college parking lot. Police cars surrounded the area and there were two ambulances idling near the left building.

 

A text from Lestrade told him that Hamish was safe. He could not hide his relief.

 

“Sir, reports show that Dr Watson shot Jefferson Hope and Sherlock enacted the Alpha Protection act. It appears the Doctor was in illegal possession of his service weapon. What would you like me to do?” Anthea looked up from her phone for the first time that night.

 

“Make the possession legal, we will deal with this without police interference,” Mycroft ordered. He left Anthea in the car to finish her work as he made his way towards one of the ambulances. Sherlock and Hamish were sitting in the back with neon orange blankets around their shoulders.

 

John Watson was standing off to the right. He was eerily still, like a wild animal primed to strike. Except for Lestrade, the entire police force was avoiding the man. Not a surprise considering he was a class A Alpha in full protection of his pack; the fact that those instincts must have come on quite suddenly made him even more dangerous.

 

Mycroft approached with care, approaching the Alpha first. “Dr Watson, it appears I have to thank you for saving my nephew.”

 

He looked startled, but looked Mycroft over carefully, although whether to check for weapons or ways to take him down remained to be seen.

 

“Nephew?”

 

Mycroft held out his hand, palm up to show it was empty. “Sherlock is my younger brother. It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson.”

 

John looked at the hand for a moment, but he finally took it in a firm handshake, as if social convention was enough to overwhelm his instincts. That explained a bit about Hamish, actually.

 

“Will you tell the good detective that John does have a license for his Browning, hmm brother,” Sherlock drawled from his spot in the ambulance. Hamish seemed to be shifting as well, taking stock of the situation.

 

Mycroft turned to Lestrade. “Of course the good Doctor has a license, did you think he would carry a weapon about without one?”

 

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “Of course not, I’m sure his paperwork will be well in order. Thank you, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft was surprised to find the man meant it. Even though he could have only known John two days at most, the detective seemed to generally like the man. He wondered how much of that had to do with the fact that he was Hamish’s missing father, or with his actual personality.

 

John looked between the two of them in confusion, but said nothing in response to the license, clever man. Instead he turned to Sherlock and Hamish, his eyes softening. “The age matches up and I should have realized it before, but Sherlock, we aren’t bonded.”

 

Sherlock tugged his blanket tighter around his shoulders as if cold. “We are in a way; as a doctor, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. I didn’t lie, Hamish is yours.”

 

“Emotional bond, Christ. Why didn’t you say anything? I know I was deploying, but I could have… I could have done something.” John was clenching his fists, but Mycroft was certain it was more frustration than anger.

 

Sherlock actually looked repentant. He turned his head away, running his fingers through Hamish’s hair to soothe his nerves.

 

Mycroft intervened. “It is a long story, best told when all participants are not suffering from exhaustion and shock. Sherlock, I think it would be best if you and Hamish stay at my house for the night. I will have my people search the flat and the surrounding area. I was told Jefferson Hope was not working alone. “

 

Sherlock looked fit to argue, but Hamish tightened his grip around his waist and he paused. “Yes, all right.”

 

John was borderline panicked. “What? I just found out I have a son. Don’t…” he turned to Sherlock and fell to his knees in front of the ambulance. “Please don’t run away. I’ll listen to your explanation, but I want to talk to Hal. I want to really get to know him.”

 

The hysterics didn’t surprise Mycroft; an Omega would always be given custody of a child over an Alpha. Sherlock could make it so John would never see Hamish again, even without the aid of Lestrade or himself. He was surprised when Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John’s head, holding him in an eye lock.

 

“I swear I am not going anywhere. Mycroft will send a car for you in the morning and we will have our talk,” Sherlock spoke slowly as if soothing a wild animal.

 

John nodded, taking a few deep breaths, his nose pressed to Sherlock’s wrist. It was clearly a scenting, a gesture only made by bonded pairs for comfort. Watching it, Mycroft wondered how long his brother would retain his unbounded status.

 

Mycroft led his brother and nephew to his waiting car. John watched from afar, having not left his spot by the ambulance, as if the slightest movement on his part would have him following after them.

 

In the car Mycroft found himself on the bizarre end of a cuddle with his brother and Hamish. Apparently even they could be susceptible to instinct at time.

 

“So I did find my other Dad, by accident,” Hamish mumbled, sounding stunned.

 

Sherlock huffed, “You should not be so surprised; I found John in a drugged stupor through a veritable army of Alphas. I suppose it was no more statistically impossible to find him again.”

 

Hamish chuckled softly, “I don’t think statistics work like that, Dad.”

 

Mycroft put them together in the room beside his. The two slept curled around each other like puppies.

 

Anthea, who had her own flat in the neighbourhood, said nothing as she entered the opposite guest room. She was equally protective over the duo after years of watching over them for him.

 

Mycroft lay in his bead and stared at the ceiling, wondering what the morning would bring.

 

***

 

John woke the next morning with the sudden realization that he had not given his address to Mycroft or Sherlock.

 

He spent the morning from 0700 to 1000 pacing his bedsit and wondered over the sudden shift in his life.

 

He had felt protective of Sherlock and Hal from day one, but he had just chalked it up to Sherlock being an Omega and Hal being adorable. When Sherlock had yelled at the cops the night before he had thought it was a trick at first, a way to stop John from going to jail for murder, justified or not, but it quickly became obvious that the man was serious.

 

It was like someone had given him his greatest gift and delivered it ten years too late. He had always wanted children, even as a boy. When he had presented as an Alpha during puberty he had despaired at never realizing his dream. His one night with Sherlock, his only night with an Omega, had been a taste of things he couldn’t have.

 

If he had known, if he had had the slightest inkling that Sherlock had been pregnant, he would have enacted an Article 15 and left the military. Where would that have left him, though? At that age he had joined the military to pay his staggering college debt and finish his clinicals. Trying to do all that with a pregnant mate and later a baby… Would he have been able to do it without dropping out?

 

Of course Sherlock had made his way by himself. He had made his own way with a baby and without a mate, had even invented his own job. Why would he need John now? Hamish was ten and brilliant, he hardly needed another father.

 

John worked himself into such a fugue that he did not at first hear the knocking at his door.

 

There was a gorgeous woman at the door with a Blackberry in her hands, but she was glaring at John like something to be crushed beneath her rather impressive heels. “Mr Holmes sent me to collect you.”

 

After the cabbie incident, John should not have been so quick to jump into a strange car, but he did so anyway. They made their way to a part of London that was beyond posh; rows of perfect houses with actual yards.

 

They pulled up to one of the nicest houses, ornately designed with white columns and sturdy red bricks. It looked both modern and old in a way that must have been ridiculously expensive.

 

Anthea led him into the house and to the dining room. Hal was eating a late breakfast while Sherlock was looking at his computer with his usual concentration.

 

They both looked up when he entered the room.

 

“Ahh, John we will talk in the office,” Sherlock stated.

 

Hal shot him an angry look, but didn’t argue as Sherlock led John into the office. It was a mixture of office and library, filled with hundreds of books, sturdy mahogany furniture, and stuffy chairs.

 

Sherlock sat in one of the chairs, pressing his hands beneath his chin.

 

John took the other chair and resisted the urge to fidget.

 

“When we first met I was a drug addict, cocaine being my drug of choice. That week might have been my last one if not for what happened. Each day I steadily increased my dose to prevent a crash. In the course of the drugs I forgot my suppressants. It was not until the morning when you said goodbye that the cocaine wore off. I knew I was not on birth control, but it took weeks of detox for me to even come to terms with my condition. By then you were long deployed and I could not even remember your name.” Sherlock spoke in one breath, looking somewhere between nervous and fierce.

 

“Drugs, you!” John sputtered, he had not even realized, of course the heavy scent of Omega heat had left him blind to a great deal. He could have easily mistaken the signs for the heat.

 

“I’ve been clean ever since, John.”

 

“Of course you have, I wasn’t suggesting. I was just surprised, is all. I… if you were under the influence then I… it was rape.” He felt a chill steal across his heart.

 

Sherlock scoffed, “Honestly John, as if you were capable of such a thing. I’ve seen Omegas have to get stitches their first time because their Alpha was too rough. I hardly had a sore muscle. While consent may have been dubious, you are hardly some terrible villain. “

 

“Then why did you wait to tell me, you must have realized the moment I introduced myself?”

 

The detective looked away. “I was aware right away, but I needed to assure myself of who you were. You saw the families Jefferson targeted. Alphas are not known for their overwhelming family values.”

 

John suspected some of this was a lie, or at least not the full truth, but it made sense. Sherlock had been only vaguely aware of his character; he could hardly be blamed for being hesitant. “Wait, why did you name him Hamish, then?”

 

“It was a Scottish name, I did remember your accent,” Sherlock replied, still not looking at him.

 

“My middle name is Hamish… Strange world, huh?”

 

Sherlock looked at him then, and laughed.

 

John could not help but join in and they were soon helpless with giggles.

When he finally got his breath back, he had to say, “Please don’t cut me out, let me remain his tutor.”

 

Sherlock sobered quickly. “John, you just shot a man in protection of a boy you knew for two days. I am well aware of your character, and I imagine if I attempted to keep you from Hamish he would stage an all-out war.”

 

John sighed in relief, a weight lifted from his chest.

 

***

 

Hamish kept himself at the table by force of will, especially when he heard the blast of laughter coming from the office.

 

His parents were barely in there for 30 minutes when they came back out. Both of his dads looked more relaxed, at ease with each other.

 

“Someday, you are going to have to tell me the whole story,” Hal scowled at his dad.

 

Sherlock shrugged, unrepentant. “Someday.”

 

John took a seat next to him, looking nervous. “Hi,” he said.

 

“Hi,” Hal greeted back, barely containing a laugh. “I can’t call you Dad.”

 

John looked like he had been slapped. “No, I guess not. John is still fine.”

 

Hal shook his head. “I can’t call you ‘John’, maybe Papa… Yeah, Papa. Is that okay?” He couldn’t help but be nervous; it might be too soon to call the man ‘Papa’.

 

John smiled, bright and infectious. “Papa is perfect.”

 

Hal launched himself at him, buried his nose in his soft jumper and inhaled the scent of tea and gun oil, a new scent that now meant home and protection. A new scent that meant Papa.

 

If he also caught scent of tears, well, he wasn’t going to tell anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last real chapter, the next will just be an epilogue closing everything up.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish is all grown up and ready to take the world by storm, but first he has to finish clinicals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is more for my own amusement than any use in the plot. It just makes me happy.

Epilogue  
(13 Years later...)

 

“Dr Watson-Holmes. Dr Watson-Holmes. DOCTOR!”

 

Hamish sat up, knocking over the mug of cold coffee at his side. “Bollocks,” he cussed, cleaning it up with a wad of napkins. He looked up at the man that had startled him, an older man he recognized from the oncology ward. “Dr Wilson. Forgive me, you caught me unawares.”

 

Dr Wilson chuckled good-naturedly and helped mop up the spill. “How long have you been here? They run you new interns like dogs."

 

Hal looked at his watch, but could hardly make sense of the numbers. “What day is it?”

 

“Tuesday,” Wilson answered, bemused.

 

“Ahh, something like 72 hours then. I shouldn’t have passed out like that, hardly a marathon,” Hal grumbled. Both of his parents had educated him in the art of staying awake for long stretches of time with small power naps. His Dad was an expert.

 

“Oh, of course, only 72. You’re British right? What brought you all the way to America?” Wilson echoed the same question he had gotten since arriving two months ago.

 

“I wanted to train with the best, it's been a bit of a work in progress though,” Hamish shrugged.

 

Wilson laughed and clapped his shoulder. “Well, let me walk you out, you can tell me about it. They gave you Christmas Eve off, right?”

 

“Yeah, I completely forgot. My family is coming to visit.”

 

“Big family?” Wilson asked. He had of course caught Hamish’s Alpha scent, overlaid with the many markers of an Alpha/Omega family unit. Oncology doctors were generally renowned for their scent receptors.

 

“No, just my little brother. He’s a right terror too.”

 

They traveled down the long hospital corridors, making their way through the maze. Halfway between the ER and the ICU Hal heard a familiar tone.

 

“HAL!” There was a cheerful cry before Hal found his arms full of rambunctious seven-year-old.

 

“You’ve gotten big, Coper,” Hal laughed, snuggling against the boy.

 

“Copernicus Gregory Holmes what did I say about running in the hospital!” There was Papa, rounding the corner and looking flustered.

 

Dad came around at a more sedate place, a satisfied smirk on his face.

 

“You guys didn’t have to meet me at the hospital, honestly,” Hal blushed, ridiculously pleased to see his family again.

 

“It seems I don’t need to see you out after all,” Wilson chuckled at his side, looking at Coper.

 

Coper jumped down and stared at the doctor in full Holmes glare. Unlike Hal, Coper had straight black hair and Papa’s blue eyes, like someone had just inverted their genetics. “You’re a cancer doctor, divorced, and in love with a coworker,” Coper stated firmly, stomping his foot as if to punctuate the statement.

 

Wilson just stared at him. “Um…”

 

“Coper,” Papa sighed and whisked his wayward son into his arms. “Sorry,” he offered with an apologetic smile that had gotten a lot of practice over the years.

 

Dr Wilson laughed and shook his head. “No, it's fine, spot on actually. Amazing, really…” He trailed off when four pairs of astonished eyes focused on him.

 

Hamish watched his parents share one of their significant looks over Coper’s head. He had always been amazed how quickly his parents developed a sort of silent communication passed through looks and gestures, ever since his Papa had shot Jefferson Hope after a glance from his Dad. It was sort of amazing.

 

The hallway erupted into noise, and the group had to press up against the wall as a patient was wheeled through. He had three doctors working on him as they rolled him into a nearby ICU unit.

 

Unable to help himself, Hamish wandered over to the window. He took a moment to observe the patient and the doctors. He couldn’t help but scowl. “Idiots, they should just give him streptomycin.”

 

“What makes you say that?” A gruff voice asked from behind him.

 

Hal turned to face an older doctor with salt and pepper hair, leaning heavily on a cane and looking rather unshaven for a Doctor. Doctor Wilson was standing behind him, looking somewhere between amused and horrified.

 

“Its obvious, Tularemia.” Hamish couldn’t control the bit of arrogance in his voice, something about this man made him want to posture.

 

“Walk me through it,” the doctor asked in a way so like his Dad that he found himself dropping easily into deduction.

 

“His boots are muddy, but it’s not the filth he would have picked up from the city, it's thick mud, from the wilderness. His hair is buzzed short and marks on his right hand show military history and competence with a weapon, the marks are old, however, suggesting he hasn’t fired a gun in awhile. If you look at his index finger however you will see a new callus from pulling a high-tension bow. Considering the season, he was most likely hunting rabbit, a man of his history with a bow would enjoy the challenge. Since he is still in hunting gear and his fever has gotten this serious I can only suppose that he was out camping for a number of days before returning home. Rabbit hunter in the woods, Tularemia; treatment of choice; streptomycin.” Hamish spoke in one great rush, half expecting the man to interrupt him.

 

Instead, he smirked, and stuck his head in the room, “Give him streptomycin, and start contact precautions.” He turned back to Hamish, “That was very good, who are you?”

 

Dr Wilson spoke up first. “This is Dr Watson-Holmes, he’s been interning in the ER for the last week.”

 

The man glanced at Wilson, than flicked his gaze over the Watson-Holmes family. “Well then, Rain-Man, report to the main conference room on Monday, you’ll finish your time here with my team.” With that he limped down the corridor, off to the elevators.

 

“Who was that?” Hamish asked, looking at Wilson.

 

“That was Dr House.”

 

“The Dr House! I’ve been trying to get into his team since I got here.” Hamish gaped.

 

Papa laid a hand on his shoulder. “Who?”

 

“He the best diagnostician in the world. I plan on surpassing him.” Hamish couldn’t resist grinning. He pulled his parents and his squirming brother into a tight hug and laughed.

 

“Let's go enjoy the holiday. On Monday I start showing this world what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would also like to thank thegingerintheback (CdnGingerGirl) for being awesome and sticking with me through this crazy thing.
> 
> Also if anyone would like to write me a Hamish and House crossover, I would love you bunches.


End file.
